


inside your mind.

by bratwiththeglasses, ohyellowbird



Series: maybe you're dreaming [3]
Category: Actor RPF
Genre: Angst, Charmie endgame, Drinking, Fist Fights, Humor, M/M, Recreational Drug Use, Unhealthy Relationships, band au, the 1975
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-02
Updated: 2020-03-26
Packaged: 2020-07-28 23:55:28
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 9
Words: 118,136
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20072713
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bratwiththeglasses/pseuds/bratwiththeglasses, https://archiveofourown.org/users/ohyellowbird/pseuds/ohyellowbird
Summary: Timmy and Armie struggle to navigate their new relationship, especially when the music is loud, the drugs are strong, and their jobs in the industry drag them thousands of miles apart.sequel to: maybe you're dreaming you're in love with me.





	1. this must be my dream

**Author's Note:**

> the response to myd was unbelievable. we couldn't stay away, even if we tried. (we basically started to write this immediately after myd finished.) we are mad lads. we love these boys and we love you guys, so here's the beginning of A+T's next chapter.
> 
> \- oyb & cpx

Thanksgiving in Los Angeles feels wrong.

The air isn’t crisp enough. People don’t lumber down the streets dressed in woolen greys. There is no massively inconvenient parade to avoid at all costs. Everything is warm in a specious way.

This is the first year Timmy won’t be spending the holiday in New York with his family, which, to be fair to Los Angeles, could be skewing his opinion.

It takes him longer than usual to pull himself into consciousness the morning of, but once he’s awake the sun in his room tells him that he should call his family before it gets much later on the east coast.

Timmy wiggles out of his cocoon of flannel sheets and slaps around for his phone. He finds it under his pillow at half battery. He’d fallen asleep lecturing Armie about everything being pumpkin-flavored during the fall, talking shit about all the vegan gluten-free pumpkin bread he had to stock at work.

He calls and while waiting for the warble of FaceTime to stop, his mind drifts to this time last year when Ansel had made the rare effort to take time off and fly out to NYC with him. Watching a movie together on his iPad during the flight over feels like a distant dream now.

Pauline answers from the kitchen, laughing at his bedhead and immediately calling their parents over to see how long his hair has gotten. Seeing all their faces makes his own ache against a wide, bright smile. The sounds of his childhood home fill the quiet of his small apartment and he feels his chest swell with longing, his family talking over one another, sharing the narrow screen of his iPhone.

“Where’s Nana?”

“Watching the parade on the couch. You’re supposed to be here with us,” Pauline pouts, fanning the camera towards the stove and countertops to make him jealous. He spots his mom’s cranberry sauce simmering on one burner. Timmy would literally kill for a spoonful.

He groans. “Don’t show me that. I know I am, but everybody else at work requested time off before me.”

“So,” Pauline shrugs, without sympathy.

“So,” Timmy continues, “I have to work a double tomorrow. We’re starting inventory.”

“Boring.”

“Torture.”

“What are you doing today then?”

Timmy almost drops the phone on his face, so he turns over onto his side, propping it up with a few fingers. “I’m going to my friend’s house.”

His sister gets closer to the camera. Her eyes narrow. “To Armie’s?” she ventures, and he shakes his head. Despite his best efforts, his face cracks with a smile and his cheeks grow warm. It’s invigorating to hear Armie’s name associated with him by a family member but the thrill is sobered quickly by another thought that’s been gnawing at him.

Last week when Timmy had called Armie to share his disappointment over not being able to see his own family for Thanksgiving, he’d risked asking Armie about his -- an inquiry that had been shot down so quickly it left him dizzy. In the moment, he’d been too caught up in reactionary emotions to demand a real answer, but the exchange has settled now into a tender bruise that Timmy can’t help pressing on.

“Nah, but he’ll be there.”

Pauline shouldn’t even know about Armie yet. Timmy had wanted to keep him a secret for a little while, until it looked like they might stick the landing, and he’d been able to do so--for all of two days. Then Armie was napping on his couch, looking like a soporific Burberry ad against the armrest, freshly fucked, and Timmy was unable to resist sending a snap of his handsome face with the photo captioned: mine.

Pauline left him eleven texts and three voicemails between then and the moment he bid Armie goodnight at the door that night. She wanted to know everything, and being the spastic, oversharing mess that he is, Timmy told her.

“Send me pics,” she tells him before passing the phone off to her parents so that they can talk about his plans for today and for his upcoming photobook. “Love you, nerd.”

“Love you,” he grins sloppily, his sister’s face being traded away for a terrible angle of his parents that gives him unlimited access to the insides of their nostrils.

They get caught up talking and before he knows it, Timmy is going to be late. “Oh shit, gotta go, love you guys!” he rushes, noting the time and flinging himself out of bed to get ready.

The ache from missing his family had been dull until Pauline’s call. Now he is dressing an open wound when he layers on t-shirt, button-up, striped socks, dark jeans, and Docs.

Adequately bundled, Timmy leaves his apartment carrying a sack of potatoes in each arm, denting the roof of his car when he stupidly hefts one bag up onto it so that he can unlock the door.

A few minutes into the drive, his music cuts out and Armie’s name buzzes in his lap. Timmy swoons when he sees it, reminded all over again that this is the universe he gets to live in, the one where they finally pull their heads out of their asses and make up; the astronomical odds are not lost on him. He taps the speakerphone icon and balances the phone on top of his shoulder. “For the last time,” he starts preemptively before Armie can speak, “you can’t just pick up mashed potatoes from a KFC drive-thru for Thanks-fucking-giving. It’s unholy.”

Armie is chewing something when he calls Timmy a buzzkill, Dakota talking loudly in the background of his crunching. “Where are you?”

Timmy checks the clock on his dash. “You’re already there?”

“Yeah, and the head chef is getting real testy about the lack of potatoes. _Ow!_” Armie gets absorbed with some kind of physical violence taking place and Timmy shifts in his seat, pressing down on the gas pedal to get there faster. When Armie comes back to the transmitter, there is wounded laughter in his voice. “I’m going to need an ETA.”

Some of Timmy’s melancholy about spending today away from his family thaws and melts at the domestic sounds of Dakota smacking Armie around on the other end of the line. “I’ll be there in fifteen.”

Armie’s, “okay bye,” is distracted. He hangs up and then LCD Soundsystem is shouting through his speakers again, lapping at Timmy’s sour mood.

The lack of cars on the road gets him to Dakota’s ahead of schedule, which he’s grateful for; LA traffic still makes him wants to cry most days. Back in New York there was never a need for a car but when he met Ansel his junior year at UCLA, he’d insisted on teaching Timmy how to drive. The awkward memory of laughing with Ansel in this car they’d found on Craigslist makes him cringe, the images fuzzy and half-forgotten like a movie he’d once enjoyed but now realized lacks any real substance.

Timmy double parks his car behind Armie’s in the driveway and tumbles out into the cold. He pops the trunk and spends a few minutes digging through the mess of shit he has back there. _Are you planning to run away? Fuck, you could clothe half the bums downtown with all this crap,”_ Armie had pointed out one night when Timmy dragged him to see Doctor Sleep and wanted to layer up before going into the chilly theater.

He grabs his multicolored sweater from the middle of the disordered heap, stuffing it on over his black button up and taking a moment to pull the collar out. Dakota had few demands for today, but one was that everyone look _fucking presentable for once_, so Timmy went the extra mile to comb his unruly hair to the side while staring at himself in the bathroom mirror. It won’t last, but should earn him kudos for effort.

The street is lined with vehicles but quiet, everyone holed up inside with their families.

Timmy lugs the potatoes out next and uses his elbow to push his trunk closed with a grunt. 

When he gets to the front door, he presses the doorbell with his nose and waits, weighted down, death gripping each sack. Armie’s unmistakable silhouette comes into view a few seconds later, blurred by the textured windows in the door and sharpening when he reaches for the knob.

Timmy is still struck by a giddy bolt of _boyfriend!_ whenever they see each other. He’s waiting for it to fade, but is beginning to doubt whether being attached to Armie Hammer will ever lose its luster entirely.

Once his initial glee passes, he’s able to take stock and notices that Armie is out of uniform today, in a blue and tan tartan sweater--likely pressed by Dakota to be festive--and olive green chinos.

His face softens and he leans forward to relieve Timmy of the potatoes currently anchoring him to the front mat. “Hi.”

“Hi,” Timmy inhales, getting a lungful of subtle cologne. He takes advantage of Armie’s stooping for the starch and turns in to brush a quick kiss over his cheek.

This will be their first official friend-get-together since getting together. Timmy can only guess at how Armie will behave without the help of large crowds and copious amounts of beer, but he does react naturally to Timmy’s lovey hello, eyelids going heavy so that he can stare and smile at Timmy’s chapped lips before stealing a second, proper kiss.

“Happy Thanksgiving,” Timmy breathes, energized by the affection. He quickly toes out of his untied boots in the foyer and drops his keys onto the little hexagonal side table before following Armie and the potatoes into the kitchen.

Nigel, the skeleton from Halloween, is perched in an armchair, still embarrassingly underdressed save for a paper pilgrim’s hat. Timmy dutifully shakes his hand. “Hello, sir.”

Further into the house, there is a crepe paper accordian-style turkey at the center of a long table draped in a cream cloth. It has hot glued googly eyes and yellow pipe cleaners for feet. Next to it is a wicker cornucopia stuffed with assorted fruit and enough vape pens for every person pushed in chair. Party favors. Timmy makes grabby hands and swipes one off the table, the itch to get stoned overbearing now that he can smell food cooking.

He doesn’t allow the fully-dressed Christmas tree in the corner into his direct line of sight.

One holiday at a time, please.

Dakota is edging a door frame in gold tinsel, pieces of short tape lined up along the outside of her wrist for easy access. She looks over her shoulder at Timmy from up on a stool and steps down to greet him with a quick swipe of her lips next to his eye. He hums a happy sound. “Hey, D,” he smiles and opens his arms for a hug but she’s already spinning out of his grasp and waving Armie over to the sink. Her pleated velvet skirt twirls around her thighs.

“Scrub potatoes, then get to peelin’, Hammer,” she orders, fishing out the peeler from a junk drawer and shoving it into his chest. “We’re not having a repeat of Thanksgiving 2015.”

Timmy finds a spot out of the way to lean against the counter and dips his pointer finger into goopy batter in a scratched plastic bowl, licking it off. Pumpkin pie mix. Yum. “What happened in 2015?” he wonders, promptly followed by a rogue swat from Dakota and a warning that he’s going to end up with salmonella.

Armie is forearm deep in the sink, his hands already working against the grainy skin of the spuds. He chuckles to himself. “I’ll tell you when you’re older.”

“I’ll tell you when you’re older,” Timmy parrots with an eye roll. “I hope you choke on your dumb potatoes.” He pushes his way over to Armie’s side and bites his shoulder, earning a smile from him that makes Timmy sway; it’s still a shock to his system whenever he sees that ridiculous smile and realizes he’s the one inspiring it.

Dakota finishes with the tinsel then busies herself pouring them drinks while Timmy criticizes Armie’s peeling technique.

“Hey. No comments from the peanut gallery,” Armie quips, fending him off with a pointy elbow, only lowering his defenses when Dakota comes over with three shots of whiskey. They cheers to indigenous peoples and drink, but before Timmy has unscrunched his nose, she is already fitting another cup into his hand.

Dakota’s official Thanksgiving drink is another questionable concoctions undoubtedly invented by mutating three different Pinterest recipes.

Timmy takes an experimental sip from the orange solo, smacking his lips. It tastes like an overripe pumpkin fucked itself on a cinnamon stick. “Yummy,” he lies.

“It tastes like fucking diabetes,” Armie gags. Timmy slaps his flank but they trade private glances relating to their pumpkin-flavored conversation last night.

Dakota leans over and sandwiches Timmy’s face between her palm and her mouth, slurping a kiss against his cheek. “At least Timmy loves me,” she scowls, leaving behind a red lipstick mark. She flips Armie off before sidling up to the counter to chop up veggies.

It occurs to Timmy then that someone is missing. “Hey, where’s Jack?”

“At the store,” Dakota tells him, and Armie jumps in to excitedly inform him that, “Dakota sent him there for--listen to this--_a single orange_!”

“I need it for my cranberry sauce!” she wails defensively. And then, speak of the devil, the door to the garage whips open and a few seconds later, Jack rounds the corner into the kitchen wearing a black-and-wheat knit sweater looking, quite frankly, is handsome as fuck. He shoots Timmy a playful eyebrow when he spots the lipstick on his cheek, tone teasing. “Oi, mitts off my bird.”

Dakota feigns ferocity but it’s obvious in the way her shoulders soften that she likes it. Jack underhands her, literally, one solitary orange.

Wow.

Timmy offers help with the food prep a few times but gets denied at every turn; they’ve all bore witness to the disasters he’s curated in the kitchen over their time knowing him. Armie assigns him the task of ‘drinking and looking pretty’, so he hoists himself up on the counter and gets to being eye candy. He surrenders his drink to instead suck on one of the proffered vape pens, alternating his own hits to hold the pen for Armie while he peels his life away.

Title Fight is blaring from Dakota’s phone while her and Armie continue to work on dinner. Jack stands uselessly next to Timmy’s knee and scrolls him through his cinephile instagram, both of them hovered over his screen as he gives a precursory film lecture about the movie he’s brought for them to watch tonight.

“Goddamnit,” Armie hisses, disturbing the peace as the last potato thuds down into the sink. Timmy leans over and spots blood leaking down his knuckles.

He grabs for Armie’s wrist, pulling it over to get a better look. “_Are you okay?_” A fat drop of red plinks into the grout between counter tiles. Dakota warns Armie not to bleed onto her potatoes. The naked ones are whisked away and plopped into a pot of water to soften.

Armie’s gaze cuts over to Timmy’s face, clocking his instant worry. “Yeah, fine,” he exhales, looking at him carefully, the two of them lingering in the stare. Timmy’s too high to spring into action but Jack swoops in, leaving the kitchen in quick strides and returning a few minutes later with neosporin and a standard bandaid. Timmy hops down onto the floor to give him room.

“Hey, how many potatoes does it take to kill an Irish man?” Jack asks cheerily, wrapping the bloody print of Armie’s finger. The room is silent except for the music and the bubbling dishes on the stove. “None!”

Armie snorts. “Dude. That’s dark,” he muses, watching Jack work, testing his dexterity once he’s finished.

Timmy over analyzes their ease with one another, and Armie’s quick surrender for Jack to help him. Something about their closeness still needles Timmy, but he’s evolved enough to know it’s on him to get over it.

Seeing Armie fuck indiscriminately while on tour with Matty’s band has left him hyper aware of Armie’s affection being placed elsewhere, no matter how momentary or platonic. He is going to to reconcile the notion that Armie’s attention isn’t always going to be his, but goddamnit if it doesn’t still hurt.

-

Dev and Carmen Sandiego from the Halloween party, Tilda, show up around two o’ clock with a bottle of wine and a tub of coconut ladoos for dessert. They look effortlessly cool in light blues and whites, toeing out of their shoes before passing through the foyer even though Timmy’s seen people dancing in muddy combat boots on more than one occasion.

Timmy and Armie are piled up on the couch watching television, Armie tapping his wrapped fingertip against Timmy’s lips in the farce that a kiss will make it better. Timmy waves hello with it caught playfully between his teeth. Then they’re hefting up onto their feet for hugs.

“Happy Thanksgiving!” Timmy tells Dev, and then Tilda, wrapping both arms around each of them, feeling affectionate and warm, in part because of the present company but also thanks to the vape he’s been nursing for over an hour.

“Timmy! Good to see you,” Dev grins, the heavy wine bottle tapping against Timmy’s spine during their embrace. He weaves into the kitchen to uncork it and returns a few minutes later to fill the empty glasses next to each plate on the table.

From there, time slides quickly by, and soon dinner is ready.

-

Timmy is properly stoned and half-drunk when Jack places the turkey front and center, and he can hardly fucking wait. The spread looks positively cinematic, everything laid out on hot pads over the cream table cloth. Salad and stuffing, mashed potatoes, cranberry sauce, a basket of rolls, asparagus, sliced prime rib.

They all shuffle into their seats and Timmy rubs his hands together eagerly, his munchies at an all time high and his stomach grumbling from sleeping through breakfast.

Jack is the last seated and, once he’s pulled himself up against the table, Dakota picks up her glass and clinks it obnoxiously with the edge of her fork.

She wants to go around the table and have each person talk about what they’re thankful for, but when Armie kicks off by saying, “cheap beer and blow jobs,” everyone follows suit with their own ridiculous list of shit, including but not limited to: legalized marijuana, road head, Seinfeld, and 7-11 slurpees.

“I literally hate every single one of you,” Dakota sighs, exasperated but fond when they circle back to her. Drinks go up in commiseration and they all cheers before finally digging in.

Timmy’s heart clenches. He didn’t express it, but one of the things he’s most grateful for is this West coast family that he’s found himself a part of.

Armie’s leg is sealed up against his under the table and he waggles his eyebrows at Timmy’s contemplative face, spurring him into action with the bump of his knee. “Come on, Chalamet,” he teases, “we need to fatten you up for the long winter ahead.”

Timmy flips him off and picks up his tools.

The next five minutes are silent except for forks and knives scraping against plates, and euphoric chewing. Everything is delicious. Dakota, and Jack and Armie to _much_ lesser degrees, really outdid themselves. Despite being a casual Friendsgiving, she really pulled out all the stops. Nothing came from a can. And there was still pie in the fridge. Armie told Timmy that she was taking the week off from work and now he’s starting to believe it.

She’s like Martha Stewart, except prettier and with a shorter rap sheet.

The Frankendrink Dakota paired with dinner, however, is not on par with the rest of her cooking. But Jack and Dev happily sip it anyway, washing each taste down with a mouthful of red wine. Timmy steals away to the kitchen to open a non-alcoholic bottle of Martinelli’s, the one tradition he remembers from childhood, and when he brings it back to the table, everyone wants a swig.

“So, are you ready to get in the studio?” Timmy asks Dev before shovelling a spoonful of mashed potatoes into his mouth once things are starting to slow down.

Dev puts down his glass. “Yeah.” he shrugs animatedly. “It’s soon, innit? Less than two weeks. It’ll be cool.”

Their recording contract with Luca Records came with the stipulations that they release music under the label in the first half of 2020.

“Playing to a metronome is going to suck,” Armie chimes in, stabbing a hunk of turkey.

Dakota trills a laugh, white teeth in a red smile. “It wouldn’t if you knew how to keep time.”

“Hah. She said ‘you suck,’”Jack crows, awarding her burn with a loud high five.

Armie pretends to flick his forkful of meat at Dakota across the table.

“So,” Dev says pointedly, trying to put their conversation back on track, “Armie’s told us you’re getting closer to finishing your photobook project. When’s it getting published?”

Timmy really appreciates Dev. He’s always been kind and inclusive in the short time that they’ve known one another. And he seems genuinely curious now. “It’s nice of you to ask,” Timmy huffs, sitting back in his chair. “I’m putting it in order now. Thanks for signing off on the pictures I’m using, by the way.”

Dev waves off his gratitude. “Of course. They’re brilliant. I should be thanking you.”

“They are, aren’t they?” Armie grins, clapping a hand around the back of Timmy’s neck and squeezing.

Dakota wilts proudly, pressing a hand to her heart. “You’re amazing, Timmy.”

Timmy buries his face. “Oh my god, you guys are embarrassing,” he groans, voice muffled against his palms.

Mercifully, Jack takes over then, spouting off about one film or another, wound up by something Tilda said in regards to this year’s Oscar contenders.

He’s in the middle of a tangent about Shakespeare in Love winning over Saving Private Ryan when Timmy’s phone, laid out on the table out of habit, vibrates against his salad fork. He moves automatically to swipe it from the folded linen napkin, but Armie’s gaze is drawn by his flustered scramble. “Sorry,” he mumbles, hiding it in his lap, in the crease between his thighs.

Nobody else has their phones out.

He doesn’t check to see who pinged him, but when his attention surfaces again, Armie’s change in expression tells him that it’s the same person who called earlier while he was smoking on the patio.

_Matty._

Timmy didn’t pick up the phone then, and he won’t look at it now.

He doesn’t know how to nonverbally communicate to Armie that there is no scandal here. Armie, who is glaring at him and pressing hard enough into his plate with his knife that, any minute now, it is going to crack in half.

Timmy and Matty have texted a few times in the last month, but nothing noteworthy that wasn’t meme-related. He wonders if that’s what Matty’s sending now and curses the universe for his timing.

It wouldn’t be the first time an ex has botched up Timmy and Armie’s time together and he knows without even looking at Armie that they’re both remembering different versions of Ansel’s impact on their early days together. Invisible tension strings itself between them, Armie won’t meet his eyes and the grounding warmth of his thigh disappears.

“So,” Tilda hums from the other end of the table, dabbing the corner of her mouth with her napkin, brown eyes straying between Timmy and Armie. “How long have you two been together?”

She has no idea that they’re not a part of the same dinner anymore. Where Timmy’s sitting, everything’s gone grey.

“About ten minutes,” Jack giggles under his breath, and Armie shivs him with his shoulder.

“You’re one to talk.”

“We’re just dating,” Dakota amends neatly, popping a cherry tomato into her mouth.

Armie snorts derisively. “Bullshit. You’re in love with him.”

“_You’re_ in love with him.”

“Now that’s true,” Jack laughs.

Timmy is quiet, smashing the prongs of his fork through cranberry sauce, thinking back to meeting Armie. They didn’t have the same trajectory as Dakota and Jack. It wasn’t love at first sight, but it was _something_. More than lust. More than connection. He doesn’t have a name for it, doubts he’ll ever have a full understanding of it either, but even now he is still feeling the effects. An earthquake with infinite aftershocks.

He can sense Tilda’s focus on them still and feels obliged to answer, especially with Dev’s pleading eyes all big and brown next to her. She is an outsider to the group like Timmy once was, and he is all too familiar with the awkwardness that comes with trying to blend in with a new crowd.

“It’s been almost a month,” Timmy shrugs nonchalantly, worried about the possibility of spooking Armie by being too specific. He throws in an, “I think,” just be safe.

Armie, still visibly annoyed, has nothing to add and simply nods in agreement.

“What about you an’ Dev?” Jack asks with his mouth full, though he’s surely been briefed on the latest by Dakota.

“We’ve known each other for awhile,” she says, blushing, her fork dancing through the remains of her side salad. “But this part is new.” Dev nudges her sweetly, looking lovesick.

“Very cool,” Timmy breathes, hoping that his face exudes friendliness despite being internally preoccupied with his unread text and Armie’s dour vibe.

“Three new relationships,” Armie assesses, taking a pause to chew and swallow. “What are the chances we’re all sitting together here next year?”

Dakota shoots him a dangerous glare. Her beaded necklace jangles when she leans forward. “Fuck off, Armie.”

“I’m just saying.” His tone is heavy, direct. “What are the odds.”

It’s cruel and uncalled for and Timmy stands abruptly, lifting his plate and nearly banging his knees on the underside of the table. He excuses himself to rinse it clean, full up on dinner and this conversation, and heads for the kitchen. Without looking back, he knows that it is Armie’s heavy footfalls following him around the half wall until they are obscured from view.

Timmy studiously scrapes his asparagus ends into the side of the sink with the disposal and sprays the plate down. Only when it’s spotless for the dishwasher does he fit it inside and straighten back up to face Armie.

He looks deeply unhappy, and like he’s probably employing the lion’s share of his restraint to remain composed while still within earshot of their friends; Timmy calls that progress, but he also takes Armie’s plate before it can end up a frisbee or percussive instrument. He sets it down on the counter, calmly and without breaking eye contact. “I love you, _stop,_” he urges softly. “I have no idea what he wants.”

Armie’s jaw flexes, the corner of his mouth flinching with a grimace. Timmy knows they don’t have much time and retrieves his phone. “Matty right? He called earlier too, but I didn’t answer. I was going to tell you after dinner, I swear. We can even look at the text together.”

Armie explodes an exhale, steeled expression folding. “I hate this,” he confesses, surprisingly gentle in his tone. He doesn’t look at Timmy’s screen when he holds it out and turns it on. “Just tell me what he wants.”

Timmy pulls his eyes away from Armie’s face to hurriedly scan the small grey bubble of text.

Matty:  
Shit sorry. I forgot it’s a holiday in the states today. Ring me when you get a chance. My mates in The Japanese House need a photog for the US leg of their tour. Kind of last minute but I wanted to see if you were up for it xx

His heart slingshots up into his throat and back.

_Is this for real?_

He is beaten by building waves of excitement, his eyes going wide as he reads the text again. It takes a few more times before he can be sure he’s understanding it right; it’s a lot to wrap his mind around in his current state but the bubbling of anticipation and opportunity is making his pulse pound and his head buzz.

Armie’s weathered patience must wear thinner, because he hears an aggressive, “Timmy?” and looks up to be confronted by demanding blue eyes.

“I think it’s a job offer,” Timmy explains through awkwardly pursed lips. He is jittery with a maniac joy and he wants Armie to be part on the elation, but the situation is off-center. “Tour photographer.” Armie’s eyes finally drop to scan the message on the screen. “Not for the 1975,” he adds quickly, pulling his phone back and sliding it into his pocket. “For another band on their label.”

Armie stands up to his full height. “What does the ‘x’ in ‘xo’ stand for again?”

Timmy gapes at him, dejected and pissed off. That _would_ be the only thing Armie cared about. He shoots him a look, ready to fight, if that’s what Armie really wants to do but before he can cock back to throw the first stone, Armie’s shoulders fall and he scrubs a hand over his face.

“Just—fuck. Forget it,” he sighs, trying for a half-hearted smile. “That’s great, that’s really great, Timmy.” They hold each other’s gaze for a second and Armie steps a fraction closer.

“Don’t say shit you don’t mean.”

“I do mean it. It’s just--no, it’s good.”

Timmy isn’t buying it and he drops his head in protest, curls bouncing. “It’s just _what_?” he snaps peevishly, always wary of Armie’s incomplete sentences. Timmy spills his feelings without hesitation and Armie still holds back.

“Is this what you want to do? Go out on the road?”

Timmy gives him a strangled sigh, throwing his arms up in frustration. “Maybe, I didn’t know it would ever be an option.” He isn’t able to process the news just yet, immediately concerned with Armie’s reaction to it. “Why is that a bad thing?”

“It’s not,” Armie expels, mulling his next words over. His expression stiffens, his body going rigid. Timmy thinks he looks pained and can’t understand why until he mutters, “I just wish it wasn’t _him_ making you feel this way.”

“Armie—“ Timmy starts but there is laughter flooding in from the other room and they both turn towards the sound, reminded that they can’t do this right now.

-

Jack, Armie and Dev, volunteer for clean up duty while everyone else takes to the living room to digest. With the three of them working through everything on the table, they join Timmy, Dakota, and Tilda about twenty minutes later for a slow-paced game of Cards Against Humanity.

“That was so good,” Timmy simpers, pushing on Dakota’s foot with his own. She smiles happily at him before Jack drapes himself over her on the loveseat, her long legs hanging themselves over the curve of Jack’s thighs as he slumps down. Dev and Tilda share the armchair in the corner, leaning together to survey the cards that have been dealt to them, fanned out in Tilda’s pretty fingers. Nigel has been relegated to the floor.

Timmy grumbles that playing as a team is cheating but he doesn’t really care -- just hates to lose. He is starfished on the floor, his hand wedged up under his sweater so he can hold his full belly while the other grips a stack of cards he hasn’t even read yet. Armie has settled nearby and has his eyes closed, cards stacked neatly in the center of his chest, rising and falling with the steady rhythm of his working lungs. Timmy wonders if he’s fallen asleep but doubts it.

He can breathe again but the air hasn’t been cleared. Matty’s offer has spun a tangible web of uneasiness between them.

“What about dessert?” Dakota suggests to a raucous chorus of boos. Timmy chuckles and when he rolls his head to the side, his heart pulses. Armie is wearing a lazy, slanted smile; maybe he’s just overthinking. Maybe this offer isn’t such a huge deal for them after all.

Timmy throws his cards down to the floor and rolls to his side, inspired to extend an olive branch. He moves to reach for Armie but his long legs knock into Jack as he shifts. Timmy looks down, his face heating up when he catches Jack’s bare-skinned ankle rubbing against his own. He retracts his knees up to his chest, but Jack seems unbothered by the accidental brush, giving him a chummy smirk. Timmy blinks away an invasive image of Jack’s mouth held to Armie’s and reminds himself he has no need (or right) to be jealous. He’s just full and still half-drunk.

“Armie,” he mumbles with maximum effort, biting at the sleeve of his sweater. Any and all movement feels strenuous after their gluttonous meal. “I wanna go home.”

There is dessert in the fridge and THX 1138 queued up on the blu-ray player but he’s ready to retire.

Blue eyes lift open and Timmy looks down at him curiously. “Okay,” Armie says easily. “Do you want me to come over?”

Timmy bites into his lip, failing to tamp down a smile. “Yes please.”

-

Between the indulgent hugs and the ease with which they all fall back into chatting saying goodbye takes forever, but eventually he and Armie make it to the front door. Dakota stops them before they can vacate the premises entirely, however, wanting to pack up leftovers before they go.

Timmy is curled against Armie’s side, buried into his chest, his face contorted in voracious agony over the concept of _more food._ He wants to decline but resistance is futile. Plus, later, when he’s stoned and has the munchies, he would regret not being able to microwave a heaping pile of stuffing and potatoes.

“I think I’m dying,” Timmy whines in the meantime.

Dakota nips him on the cheek with a pinch and scurries off to fill two tupperwares. Jack hangs around the doorframe talking with them on the mat until she returns.

“Are you sure you’re not too full to drive?” she asks, half-joking, filing a container of food into Armie and Timmy’s hands.

“I think my blood gravy content is over the legal limit,” Armie laughs, kissing Dakota on the forehead when she pulls away. “Thanks for putting this together, ‘Kota.”

Jack wraps an arm over her shoulder when their mini-love fest is over. “If you only get one phone call, you know who to use it on.” He points to himself with a thumb.

“Ha, right. See ya.”

“Bye!” Timmy grins for what feels like the hundredth time. Then they’re descending the walkway towards the street, Jack and Dakota watching them from the doorway like proud parents sending their kids off to prom.

Armie separates from Timmy at the curb and rounds the front of his car, keys jangling in one hand. “Meet you there.”

Timmy picks apart his tone for clues, tells him, “yeah,” and climbs into his own driver’s seat unsure of what will transpire once they’re alone.

-

He makes it back to his apartment first; Armie doesn’t know the shortcuts yet, which intersections to avoid and where to turn off the main road. Instead of going inside though, Timmy waits on the front step, tupperware beside him, watching for the champagne-colored Altima to turn onto his street and slow for parking.

He lights a cigarette and stares off down the road, eyes anticipating car lights. A minute and half a cigarette goes by before his mind inevitably drifts back to Matty’s offer. Without Armie’s eyes to put a spotlight on reality, Timmy finds himself smiling so hard his cheeks hurt, flooded with hysteria. The rush of an unthinkable new path presenting itself. What it might mean for him, his future.

More than anything; more than boyfriends or girlfriends, drugs, parties, sex — all Timmy has ever wanted to do is take photos. He remembers being a kid with a collection of disposables in a box under his bed, remembers how exciting it would be when the pictures were ready to pick up from the lab. Memories made real. It was a feeling that Timmy carried with him into adulthood, receiving a real film camera on his fourteenth birthday and his first DSLR when he graduated high school.

Despite the emotional turmoil that was the tour with DLID and the 1975, a new beast of ambition had woken up inside of him during that week away, to tour with a band and document the journey through pictures was a dream of a dream, new but vivid.

This offer from The Japanese House via Matty would give him the chance to make that fleeting experience into a living.

His heart picks up speed when Armie comes into view, practically pummeling out of his chest by the time he gets out of the car and starts walking towards him. His smile is evident even in the dark and Timmy stands to ash his cigarette just in time to be enveloped in a surprising hug, Armie nuzzling his face into the bend of Timmy’s neck. “I’m so full,” he moans, burdening Timmy with his weight, unbalancing him on purpose.

The door opens behind his back and they stumble in together, a clumsy beast with four long legs. Timmy bats the door closed with his hand and Armie eases off of him. For all of his hard edges, he looks soft, his sweater collar loose around his neck and a dusky pinkness to his cheeks.

Timmy privately swoons, hoping against hope that their tiff can remain shelved until tomorrow. “Wanna lay down and watch something?”

“Mm yeah,” Armie decides with little deliberation, kicking out of his shoes and heading directly for the bed in Timmy’s living room. He’s careful to step around the labyrinth of mock up pages covering the floor. Cheap printouts of the photos that will make up Timmy’s book--he’d been working out an order for them last night after work.

Armie folds down into bed and rolls to one side, making room for Timmy on the right, who watches Armie fight his way under a blanket before moving about the room. He stores the leftovers and fills up a large glass of water for them to share and switches on his floor lamp, casting the dark room in a hazy orange glow; the bulb is almost dead.

Timmy can see himself from overhead, buzzing throughout his cluttered space with Armie laying in bed, following him with his eyes. It makes him feel a very specific cocktail of charged, lucky, and content. He takes off everything except for his underwear then fishes for the tv remote and climbs in next to Armie with it held in one hand. “Today went well,” he sighs, getting comfortable, on his back with Armie curved facing him.

Armie scoffs. “If you say so.” His eyelids look heavy, his irises shaded a dark, velvety blue. “Let’s talk about the Matty thing.”

Dammit.

Timmy drags Armie’s hand over to feel his belly, and the formidable food baby he conceived during dinner. He plays with each finger, lifting it up and letting it go, looking at Armie all the while. “What do you think?” he asks earnestly, and Armie’s hand skates upwards, splayed out to feel the rise and fall of his ribcage.

“I guess you’ll have to call him to find out more about it,” Armie says after a beat. He sounds like he’s trying. “But it’s probably a good opportunity.”

Tryptophan is one hell of a drug if it’s able to keep Armie this even-keeled when discussing Matty. Timmy absently draws a finger down the angle of his jaw, slowly, feeling the prickly rasp of short whiskers. His indignation from the kitchen reshapes itself into a creeping fear in light of Armie’s tenderness. “I’d probably be gone for a month or something. That’s scary.”

They still feel so fragile most days. Timmy has known Armie since June, but they’ve been semi-functional for less than a month and he has serious doubts about whether they’re solid enough to handle so much distance.

“Yeah,” Armie exhales, blinking slowly, his expression faraway. They’re on the same wavelength. “DLID’s tour doesn’t leave until February, but if you head out soon, and you’re on the road for, say, a month, then that’s a long time.”

They breathe in silence for a few minutes then, mocking up and knocking down different scenarios in their heads rather than showing each other the resulting buildings. Timmy can’t put together an edifice for the next few months that is structurally sound. “Maybe I should say no.”

Armie’s gaze sharpens and cuts back to his face. “Don’t say that,” he admonishes, brow creased. He looks very serious, and very still. “Do you want to have a career in photography?”

Timmy’s quiet, _yes_ mellows Armie. He jostles Timmy with his shoulder, rousing him into smiling, and tests his teeth playfully against the round of his cheek.

“Then we’ll figure it out.” For a moment, with Armie’s warm mouth still pressed to his face, Timmy thinks that’s all there is to it.

That is, until he realizes, “What about you guys recording the album? I’m going to miss it. And Christmas, and _oh my god_. My birthday.” Timmy works himself back into a frenzy, thinking about all of their firsts he will be giving up if he does this. “We might not even spend New Year’s together.”

Armie’s touch is grounding most of the time, but Timmy can’t find purchase. He feels a panic start to hook into his stomach and tears burn at the back of his eyes.

“Do you even know what dates you’d be gone yet?”

“No,” Timmy admits, pouting regardless. He sniffs and cups Armie’s cheek. “And by the way, I haven’t been texting Matty, not really. This offer was totally out of the blue.”

Armie doesn’t look reassured. He disappears inside of himself, an impassive shell, and says, “okay,” but Timmy can’t tell whether or not he really believes him..

Not wanting to pick that fight tonight, he circles back around to being gone for the holidays. “You’re going to kiss someone else when the ball drops.”

Armie barks out a startled laugh. “Fuck off. You know that’s not going to happen.”

“But it could. What will you do for Christmas if I’m not here?”

There’s a tremble to his voice that inspires Armie to turn out his hand and kiss his palm. “It’ll be okay,” he stresses, flexing his injured finger to catch the bandaid on the edge of Timmy’s wrist. “I promise.”

“Don’t promise,” Timmy whimpers, unable to stomach the future disappointment if this all goes pear shaped. Armie keeps his hand against his mouth.

“What do you want me to do then?” Timmy just shrugs, hapless. They hold silence for a second until Armie breaks and exhales, soft. He plays his new favorite trump card, biting it into the ball of Timmy’s hand. “I love you.”

It works like a charm. Timmy lets out a ragged sigh, bowled over by the sentiment. It clamps around his heart and armors Timmy against the bulk of his fear.

He will never tire of hearing Armie say it first, as it’s such a rarity. This whole thing still feels like a fever dream most days and Armie’s affirmation that he’s still as gone as Timmy is electrifying.

He rolls over onto his side so that they are facing one another on the bed and shakes out his worry. “Fuck, okay okay. I love you too,” he says, really meaning it, swaying forwards to catch Armie’s mouth with his own to impress the truth upon him.

When they come up for air again, Timmy goes for a swift topic change, greedy for another dose of reassurance. He takes a long, slow breath and dives headlong into the conversation he’s been desperate to pick back up all week. “Now can we talk about why we didn’t go to your family’s house today?”

Armie _hates_ this subject and predictably moans, flopping onto his back so that he doesn’t have to look at Timmy. Undeterred, Timmy eliminates the newly calved wedge of space between them by gluing himself to Armie’s sternum.

“Too heavy,” Armie complains, but Timmy stays, propping his elbows on Armie’s chest and his chin in his hands.

He peers down at Armie. “Too bad.”

Timmy is prepared to battle this out, his need for answers chipping away at his sanity. Even Dakota won't spill the details of Armie and his family and Timmy will drive himself mad if he has to do much more waiting.

What ensues is a staring contest, complete with illegal blinking, eye rolls, and even a violent attempt to evict Timmy from the bed entirely.

It doesn’t last long, both of them too sluggishly full to wrestle like they sometimes do.

Armie has Timmy trapped on his back with his head and shoulders hanging off the bed, his curls tangled and wild away from his face. He’s tickling Timmy and Timmy is getting dangerously close to pissing himself.

“Stop!” he implores over and over, and Armie _finally_ relents, dragging Timmy back from the brink. Timmy urgently extricates himself and runs for the bathroom.

A minute or two later, he returns and lays back down, same position as earlier, right on top of Armie. He sits tall over his waist, arms folded. “Ready to talk about it now?”

Armie laughs, a rumble Timmy feels rise from below and spread throughout his entire body. “You have a one track mind.”

“I want to understand,” he explains, sincerity threaded into his tone. He knows it’s a sore spot, but even the most distant families usually spend today together.

Also, more than Timmy cares to admit, there is a nagging thought at the corners of his ego telling him that the reason Armie didn’t ask him to spend the holiday with his family is because he doesn’t think Timmy is worth the introduction: why bring something home when they are only temporary?

“I wanted to spend today with you,” Armie says eventually, which is sweet but does nothing to quiet that voice in the back of his mind.

“And I couldn’t have gone?” Timmy ventures, keeping most of the sadness out of his voice.

Armie sees his train of thought and puts his hands out in a rush to connect them, grabbing at his hips, his thighs. “No, it’s not like that.”

Timmy feels a second, unhelpful threat of tears stinging at his eyes and blinks rapidfire. “Okay.”

“_Timmy,_” Armie whines, bringing him down. They kiss. “It’s not. I just didn’t want to subject you to it. When we’re all in a room together, my parents and my brother and me...it’s a shitshow.”

Timmy feels defensiveness balloon in his chest and his shoulders square up. He goes stiff in Armie’s hold. It’s a pitiful excuse. “All families are a shitshow, especially during the holidays. Isn’t that part of the charm?”

Armie’s wrangled irritation is clear in his burning eyes. “You don’t get it.”

“Then help me see!” Timmy would be scared to press further but he knows that if he doesn’t push back, Armie will _never_ tell him anything about his family and this can only go so far with those kinds of walls still up. He punches his knuckles down into Armie’s chest. “Let me in, dammit.” They both huff. “I don’t care if your family are, I don’t know, Trump-supporting racist fucking serial killers. Just tell me, at least.”

Armie hums, amused. “Well, actually...”

Timmy squeezes out a laugh but then remembers his anger and grabs a handful of Armie’s sweater. “I’m serious.”

Armie sobers, then surrenders. “I don’t have a good relationship with them,” he says in a short breath. No shit, Timmy thinks, and thankfully, Armie elaborates. “They guilted me into leaving everything and taking over my brother’s responsibilities in the company after his accident, but even before that, we didn’t see eye to eye. They wanted very different things than I wanted growing up. They had expectations. Keep on the straight and narrow. Get into an Ivy. Graduate with a bachelor’s, then master’s, in business. Take up the mantle for my father when he was ready to retire.”

Timmy opens and closes his mouth, having guessed at most of this but not knowing what to say.

Armie sighs, roving his hands up and down the tops of Timmy’s thighs. “What I am isn’t what a Hammer is supposed to be,” he summarizes.

“So, you’d end up fighting about that stuff if you had dinner with them today?”

“Yeah. They still can’t reconcile who they want me to be with who I am. There are only so many ways to express that I’m a disappointment before it starts getting repetitive. Birthdays, Easters, Christmas. It only ever goes badly. So I call, sometimes, but that’s pretty much it.”

There’s more to be unburied here but Timmy feels grateful for what he’s been able to excavate. As far as he can tell, Armie isn’t lying. “Okay,” he says, stroking his thumb against Armie’s rounded chin, expelling any further questions in a long exhale. He rolls off of Armie then and onto his side, grinning when Armie’s face automatically turns so he can look at him.

“I had a much better day with you at Dakota’s than we would have had there. Trust me.” He smiles almost sadly, and there’s nothing for Timmy to do but bring that smile in for a warm-lipped, ambitionless kiss.

-

They fall asleep without knowing it, or at least Timmy does. When he opens his eyes again Armie is awake. He’s sitting up with two pillows scrunched behind his back and eating a slice of leftover pumpkin pie right out of the foil. His head is turned towards the television and LOST is on.

Timmy watches him in silence for a few sated minutes, admiring the curve of his jaw and the way the tendons in his neck tighten when he takes a bite. He waits until Armie is crinkling the foil into a ball and throwing it across the living room towards the trash before making a sound to draw his attention.

Armie turns to him and Timmy snickers. There is a smear of pumpkin gathered at the joining of his mouth. With a grunt, Timmy sits up and licks it off before flopping back down.

“I have no idea how you can eat, I’m still pregnant from dinner,” Timmy slurs sleepily, but he licks his lips of spicy pumpkin remnants anyway.

Armie makes a face. “What trimester?”

Timmy laughs and rolls over to his back, pulling the blankets down over to the tops of his bare legs. He spreads both hands wide over his stomach, pushing his tummy out for effect.

He pats. “Wanna feel it kick?”

Armie stares at him, his eyes focused on the pudge of Timmy’s lower belly. He pushes away both of Timmy's hands and covers the same amount of skin with one of his own. “You’re an idiot,” he decides, sliding down and leaning in to take a bite out of the paunch of skin under his belly button.

A few minutes pass, just Armie’s scruffy cheek against the soft plush of Timmy’s stomach, talking shit, his head shifting on each breath. Timmy burnishes the pads of his fingertips over Armie’s buzzcut, enjoying the way they go numb the longer he scratches.

The next episode of LOST queues up and Timmy watches the screen until an atypical thought enters his mind. “I need a new TV.” His is a hand-me-down from a friend, offbrand, with some dead pixels in the center. “It’s Black Friday. Let’s go trample asshole holiday shoppers and get me a TV.”

Armie doesn’t move. “That would make us asshole shoppers too.”

There’s no time to be sensible. Timmy tugs on Armie’s ear. “Yeah but. It’s like infiltrating the system from the inside. Destroying consumerism by taking away their shit, one TV at a time.” He is shining a toothy grin when Armie finally turns his head, giving him tight eyebrows and a tilted smile.

“Are you high?”

Armie’s question sparks another thought.

“No, but!” He twists, reaching for his bedside table and pulling open the top drawer. His hips wiggle as he stretches to find a small discarded baggie in the way back. “My neighbor came up on this and gave me a good deal.” Timmy lays back and Armie’s rests his chin in the shallow dip of his sternum. He dangles the small ziplock of cocaine between his fingers, slapping it against his opposite palm. “Yeah?”

Someone is screaming in the background on LOST. A polar bear is charging through the jungle.

Armie nods, hypnotized by the movement. “Fuck it. Sure.”

Timmy tries to pry him off with his knees so he can cut lines but Armie pushes back and traps him down, shakes his head. “I’ll do mine here.” Timmy stares at him, confused as Armie reaches up and takes the baggie from him, pinching the plastic open. “Keep still,” he orders, flashing Timmy serious blue before gingerly tipping the bag sideways to salt his lower belly with a generous trail of white powder.

It tickles and Armie ends up having to pin him down by the hips to stop his squirming. He sniffs his meandering line. It’s not very graceful but it’s Armie and everything he does seems effortless, even when it’s not. He licks a stripe over his skin to clear away any remnants after, his tongue nudging his lips out as he lathers the substance over his gums.

Impatient, Timmy sits up and finds what he needs to cut his own line. He doesn’t make a show of it, setting two up on the back of a book about Rococo Art, and quickly throwing them back to catch up with Armie.

“Don’t you have work tomorrow?” Armie asks offhandedly, kissing his shoulder blade as Timmy leans over to clean away the remaining powder with his thumb.

Timmy chuckles. “I’ll be fine, grandpa,” he taunts. “I’m twenty-three.” He can’t count the number of times he’s gone to work still fucked up from the night before.

“Grandpa huh?” Armie mewls, punctuating his amusement with a nip at the base of Timmy’s throat. “That’s okay. I know you still want in these Depends.”

“Ewww,” Timmy guffaws, horrific imagery stealing into his head. Armie seals up his open-mouthed laughing with a slippery kiss.

They sit up in bed making out until the drip down the back of their throats is washed away with saliva and, once their blood is fizzling, their muscles floating, they part to get dressed and go find Timmy a TV.

Armie is peeing with the door open while Timmy hefts on his boots. He’s bent forward over his knee, pulling his shoestrings tight when his phone buzzes on the floor next to his foot. It’s Matty again.

Matty:  
No pressure, T. Just let me know in the next few days. Miss you like the California sunshine xx

Timmy’s lips make a sound when they part into the beginnings of a smile and he glances over, nervous, to see Armie finishing up, zipping his pants and flushing. He shoots a text back to Matty quickly, promising to call first thing in the morning, whatever time that might be for him in the UK, and just manages to shove his phone back into his pocket as Armie walks out. Timmy tries his best to look innocent despite having done nothing wrong.

“Sneaking pictures of me, creep?” Armie asks, kicking the toe of his shoe against Timmy’s boot. “Ready?”

He’s got a smirk on and both eyebrows raised and suddenly Timmy feels heavy with the weight of a possible separation from him. They’re so new and after the hurricane that was their courtship he’d been looking forward to a few months of calm seas to learn each other.

“We don’t have to go,” he offers, an attempt to ease his own guilt for the hand he’ll have in possibly fucking things up between them. He knows already that he’s going to say yes to the offer, no matter the repercussions. It would literally be living his dream. “We can stay here, fuck, eat, watch more LOST on my shitty TV.”

Armie examines him, his familiarity with Timmy’s shifting emotions growing more advanced as the days tick by. He raises an eyebrow and steps between Timmy’s thighs, pushing him back by the shoulder until he’s laying flat, staring up at Armie’s skyscraper figure above him. “What’s wrong with you?”

“I don’t like change.” Timmy turns to look at his TV, his curls tumbling against his neck. Armie nudges his inner thigh and snaps his attention back.

They battle out silence until Armie finally dips, taking to his knees in front of Timmy. With his aggressively beating heart, Timmy’s cock pulses to life quickly and Armie tugs down his jeans just enough for him to spring free. “Nothing is changing.” He kisses the seam of Timmy’s inner thigh, next to his balls, slips his tongue along the crease. “And we’re getting your goddamn TV, but first...”

Timmy wonders if wanting this gig is selfish when there are warning bells going off, but then Armie’s mouth is around his cock and he loses reach of everything beyond the feel of wet warmth and those long fingers curving around his waist to hold him still.

He molds a hand around the back of Armie’s skull and allows sensation and his high to carry him away from such downer ideas.

Armie is love with him, and he is fully head-over-ass in love with Armie too.

That will be enough.


	2. by your side

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this chapter title is actually a sade song, but the 1975 covered it. we highly recommend you give it a listen. we know we said we'd post friday but we wanted to combat some of the negativity going around with good ol' fic. it's nature's remedy.
> 
> make sure you hydrate after this one, lads. we love youuu.
> 
> \- oyb & cpx

“You know I don’t do any of that fancy shit, I’ll call you every night.”

They’re sat arguing at a nice restaurant downtown for a change of pace, seated next to a commercial patio heater so that Timmy can de-layer and Armie can avoid looking like he’s having dinner with a pile of laundry. There are no less than three pieces of outerwear hanging from the back of his chair. Armie watched him struggle with slow but assertive aggression while he removed each one: black denim jacket, white hoodie, and thin checked flannel.

“I’m going to be gone for an entire month,” Timmy growls, re-adjusting his long sleeve shirt now that he’s finished shucking himself like an ear of corn. “We’re FaceTiming.”

“Timmy.” Armie massages his temple, both of them firing off exasperated sighs.

Their silverware bounces with the force of Timmy’s fist knocking down onto the table. “Why do you have a fucking smartphone if you never use anything on it?” He’s boiling over, his expression almost comical in its frustration.

This is a pointless fight, and not the first of its kind.

“I don’t think they even make flip phones anymore,” Armie informs him calmly, thinking back to his last trip to AT&T and getting side-tracked wondering what criminals use for burners these days. Timmy makes a sound like a wounded animal, his hands out in front of him, clawed and vibrating. The elderly couple eating at the table next to them is beginning to look worried.

His and Timmy’s food is brought over a few minutes later but Timmy refuses to touch his plate. Armie dives right into his bison burger, maintaining the staring contest they’re having while he chews. “That pasta is twenty-five bucks. It’s getting cold.”

Timmy's eyes start to water and he falls back against his seat, easing his plate away and crossing both arms over his chest. “I’m not hungry anymore.”

“Bullshit,” Armie scoffs, pushing the plate, hard, back towards him. The glass of wine Timmy hasn’t touched slops over from the sudden movement. It spills through the teak slats of their tabletop and onto Armie’s leg. Thank you black denim. “Stop pouting and eat.”

“I’m not fucking pouting.”

Armie puts his hands up in surrender, mouthing _whatthefuckever_ before returning to his burger while Timmy seethes. All these talks about him leaving are depressing and Armie can’t wrap his head around why FaceTiming is the hill he’s willing to die on. This generation and its dependency on technology is downright disturbing. He doesn’t need his facial ID recorded for some database or sold off to the highest bidder.

A minute or two passes in complete silence, Armie making eyes at his food while the old people next to him steal looks at their emotional progress, more interested in the melodrama unfolding at their table than in whatever soup du jour they’ve ordered with complimentary ice waters.

Timmy breathes strangely and when Armie checks him over, he sees damp tears collecting at the tips of his bottom lashes.

Fuck. It’s then that he realizes he’s being defensive for no reason, and that for some reason this topic has become a roadblock in them accepting they’ll be separated soon. Armie’s stomach lurches; he doesn’t want to go a month without seeing Timmy’s pretty face either.

It’s a stupid principle, he decides, born from contrarianism--he just hates to admit it.

His burger is almost gone by the time he outwardly surrenders, wiping the back of his hand against his mouth. “Fine. I’ll FaceTime you.” He shrugs a shoulder and adds, “If it’s that important,” not totally evolved.

Timmy only looks half-pleased. He shrugs, but pulls his plate in, putting on an air of indifference. He prods a swirl of fettuccine. “It should be important to you, too.”

“I’m going to miss your face,” Armie offers, skirting an actual apology. “So yeah, I would like to look at it while you’re gone.” He stares at Timmy to watch some of the tension drain out of his posture, but he’s being stubborn, stuffing a huge forkful of pasta into his mouth while staring right back, sauce splashed all over his face. “Charming.”

The old couple next to them is looking more relaxed.

Timmy makes a show of chewing and swallowing, loudly sucking in one long, flat noodle. He takes a moment after to clean off with his napkin before sitting back in his chair. “I hate you sometimes,” he announces cheerily, grabbing for his wine, bad mood broken like a fever. “Let’s ask for the check. Saoirse and Greta are probably already there.”

-

_There_ is a warehouse party out in East Hollywood.

Timmy’s white hoodie glows once they’ve paid the cover and, shackled with neon green wristbands, step through the tall, rusted doors inside. The filthy soles of Armie’s checkered Vans are the only thing illuminated by the blacklights besides his teeth, says Timmy, assaulting him with an oblivious smile. He is always sunshine but tonight, here, he’s blinding.

The entire space is bursting with people, the concrete flooring hidden by an undulating mass of bodies, arms with glow stick bracelets coiling through the air in time with the beat. Everything is pulsing.

It isn’t an unfamiliar landscape to Armie, but he wouldn’t be here if Timmy hadn’t asked him to come. They are running out of nights before he leaves for tour and Timmy had already marked Going on this facebook event before he was offered the job.

A rave with him was better than anywhere without, and Armie would be suffering enough of the latter in the coming month; the decision to tag along was an easy one.

“Drinks,” Timmy mouths over the noise, inclining his head towards one of the skinny bars pressed along the wall. He reaches back for Armie’s wrist and begins wading towards it, phone out in his other hand, lighting up with texts. Armie averts his gaze for fear of seeing any names that will spoil the evening.

Saoirse is waiting at the bar when they make it over, swirling a clear plastic cup and wearing a giant ring that strobes through every color in the rainbow. She’s radiant in silver glitter, lashes and brows highlighted with neon eyeliner.

“Congrats on your promotion!” Timmy hollers, his long limbs swallowing her into a hug that she happy-squeals inside of. When he pulls away, the left side of his face shimmers with residual glitter.

Saoirse is the new Event Coordinator for the House of Blues. She’s already spoken loosely with Dakota about booking them there, but now that DLID has representation, her people will be talking to their people, or however the fuck that works. Regardless, it’s an impressive career move.

Armie reaches into their lovefest to proudly squeeze her arm before turning to order something from the girl tending bar in a rainbow bikini and white fishnet overdress.

Most of the menu is syrup with vodka, so that’s what he goes for, making each drink a double and fitting one into Timmy’s hand while it flits around his face to illustrate some story.

The beat from the music is thrumming inside of Armie’s ribcage when they cheers with Saoirse and drink, Greta bounding into sight a moment later to take a long swig from her girlfriend’s glass before telling he and Timmy hello. Her exuberant entrance reminds Armie that he has something for them in his pocket. Timmy catches his body language and stares, excited eyes on Armie’s hand as it dips into his pocket, going wide with wonder when he withdraws a ziplock bag.

“Armie!” Timmy coos, “you were holding out on me!”

“It was a surprise,” he smirks, tipping the contents out into his palm. Six chalky white pills stamped with smiley faces. Timmy plucks one out and necks it immediately, showing them all his empty tongue after he swallows. Armie laughs. “You’re a maniac.”

Greta waves her hand at his open palm. “Thanks, but I’m already rolling.”

Saoirse’s head snaps towards her.

“Someone in the bathroom,” she explains, nudging Saoirse towards Armie’s hand. “Hurry, get on my level!”

Another pill disappears.

Timmy is visibly itching to drag them all out into the middle of the crowd now, anticipation making him jitter in place. Armie’s eyebrows waggle as he repockets three tablets and downs the remaining dose of MDMA. Jack and Dakota were supposed to take the other two but dinner with her parents “ran late.” (More likely they just wanted to go home and fuck afterwards.)

They drink and talk for ten minutes, Greta pulling Saorise out to the dance floor after five because she’s already lit up. Timmy pouts, watching them disappear into the sweaty sea of bodies.

“I don’t feel anything.”

Armie’s fingers play across the smooth skin above Timmy’s waistband. Someone squeezes past, flattening his palm out. “Give it a minute.”

“Maybe these are duds.”

“You’re a dud.” They both smile. Timmy pushes his hand into the pocket of Armie’s black jeans.

“Let’s split the other one.”

He shakes his head, peering down. “That’s a bad idea.”

Timmy pulls him in and kisses the underside of his chin. “Just because something’s a bad idea, doesn’t mean it shouldn’t be done.” Armie pushes back his hair to see his face, chin now resting on the plate of his chest bone. Somehow there’s even more glitter.

“Mm, it does actually,” he laughs, kissing away the idea for now.

When they break apart, Armie can feel the heat in his blood and the delicious anti-gravitational lift from the drugs. A new lens has been placed over the evening, setting everything in different hues. The people moving around them to get to the bar feel less like an invasion and more like a caress, his arms and back singing each time someone brushes past. Timmy’s fingers squeezing his side radiate sensation. The ghost of his mouth tingles.

“Dance floor,” comes Timmy’s smooth demand, slicing into his high like a hot knife through butter, and Armie doesn’t hesitate to comply.

-

If his own state is anything to go by, Timmy must be completely gone. Armie’s lips are numb and his skin is washed in heat and humidity from the crowd pressing together. He can feel the condensation from the drink he’s holding run over his fingers, lifts his hand to lick his knuckles for no reason other than it feels like the right thing to do.

Someone’s elbow knocks into Timmy and his drink sloshes over. “What the fuuuuuck,” he laughs, his voice a melodic vibration that mingles with the bass of the music. Sound is exploding from the walls of speakers at the front and sides of the stage.

Armie hates everything about this type of venue; the club scene, the techno, the drinks, the people. But Timmy is spinning on his heels with his chin up and his eyes closed, looking faraway and fully absorbed and Armie realizes that he can’t really hate anything that makes Timmy look this happy. A hundred times over, he’s worth all the bullshit.

Fuck, molly makes him sappy.

Timmy dances closer to him, welcomed heat despite the thick layer of sweat shellacked over their skin. Their bodies sway together as anticipation for the beat dropping builds, the music bringing them higher, higher, higher.

Timmy lifts his hand to take a gulp from his drink just as Armie finishes his own and their eyes connect on the exchange.

Armie’s mouth curves. It’s not a smile but it’s soft and he hopes that Timmy knows it’s just for him, wishes he could send it with him in his suitcase so that Timmy doesn’t forget how he makes Armie feel. Even if other people might not see it, or believe it, Armie wants to be sure that Timmy _knows._

“You good?” he asks, leaning over, sliding his hand along Timmy’s lower back. Timmy leans into it, his body folding into Armie naturally.

Timmy nods. “I’m fucked up,” he half giggles, announcing it proudly, smacking his lips.

“Yeah?” Armie goads, lowering his face, breathing through Timmy’s exhales. “Me too.” He closes a hand around the back of Timmy’s neck, underneath damp curls, and kisses him, not thinking about anything outside of the way it’s going to feel.

The people around them hardly take notice, rolling through each song with a hive mind, possessed by the DJ spinning records in his booth.

They spend well over an hour lost in their high together, grinding and making out and speaking right into each other’s ears. At one point Greta and Saoirse are swept over to them, checking in with peals of laughter before disappearing again.

-

It’s getting too humid inside the warehouse despite the tall ceilings. Armie’s clothes are beginning to feel heavy, his jeans sticking to his thighs. “Baby, I don’t feel good,” Timmy mumbles into the soggy fabric of Armie’s shirt collar, throwing his weakened arms over his shoulders. “It’s hot. I’m thirsty.”

Timmy’s hair is slicked away from his face and down his nape, alcohol-infused sweat painting his body. His cheeks are an aggressive shade of rose that spreads across the bridge of his nose. Timmy wobbles, clings and then stumbles for no reason.

Armie tightens his hold on Timmy’s belt and gives his hips a twist to lead them out of the main room. The hall is filled with people but they all blur together until the door to the patio swings open and they’re hit by smoke-filled cold night air.

“I’m going to get you some water, stay put,” Armie orders and Timmy laughs at him. Armie tugs at his denim jacket and helps him tie it around his waist. Too many fucking layers.

“You’re cute when you’re concerned,” he smiles. “Your face does this.” He scrunches his features tight in an over-exaggeration of what Armie assumes he _might_ look like.

“I’m not fuckin’ around, Timmy. Don’t move.”

“_I’m_ not fucking around,” Timmy mocks with a lax, slurry smile. Armie helps him back against brick wall and waits until he’s balanced before taking off back inside the venue.

He pushes through bodies with ease, fighting his way to the bar top. He uses his size to his advantage and leans over everyone in front of him to shout at the bartender for water. That earns him a dirty look, but Armie doesn’t give a fuck, ignores the people calling him names around him and waves an impatient hand. His high and his manners have taken a backseat to his current objective.

Timmy is fading.

He is willfully ignored for a few minutes, but when Armie cards his way to the very front of the line and looms, the guy pulling a beer with dayglo suspenders on and no shirt eyes him and gets him his water.

“Thank you,” Armie growls, reaching to take it before it can even be offered. He slaps down a tip and makes his way back towards the side door to outside.

His gaze is immediately drawn to the place he’d left Timmy, out of the way to sober up a little and breathe clean. Now, there is a crowd of people with him. Three guys are picking him up from the floor by the armpits of his hoodie and slamming him back into the brick. Timmy is sporting a fat lip, shouting as his legs and arms swing in an attempt to break out of their hold.

“Fuck you, you fucking pussy!” He spits, looking feral.

Armie is in action before he can make sense of what the hell is going on. Everything is commotion; people shouting in defense of their respective groups. There is a girl crying against the wall while another girl confronts her and broken glass being crushed under everyone's feet.

The telltale signs of a brawl.

“Hey!” Armie bellows, getting the attention of two of the guys. They drop Timmy, but still look poised to fight, shoulders hunched around their ears, eyes stretched open by adrenaline.

Armie’s presence doesn’t placiate Timmy any and he has to grip him by his jacket collar to get him to focus. There’s blood smeared across the lower half of his face, droplets of pink and red spattered against the front of his white hoodie.

“Look at me,” Armie orders, but Timmy is on his tiptoes, preoccupied with throwing words and hands over Armie’s shoulder at the guy who is shouting obscenities back. Timmy is sputtering as he shouts, the veins in his neck tight and throbbing. Armie puts a hand on his lower belly to keep him from bounding forward into more violence. He realizes he won’t be able to get Timmy to settle until the other guys leave, so he turns around, brandishing an arm that’s still holding Timmy’s bottle of water. “Hey -- fuckface, unclench your asshole and back the fuck up.”

The rat-faced lead offender makes the same face everyone who wants to fight Armie does; foreboding uncertainty swallowed by foolish overconfidence as the alcohol or drugs kick in and convince them that they have a shot at taking him. The main guy and his group start spewing bullshit that Armie doesn’t bother to translate but Timmy is reeling from it, looking near tears with determination to keep fighting this guy.

Armie gives him a rough tug. “It’s not worth it.”

The only reason he’s attempting to keep his cool tonight is because Timmy--sober Timmy, anyway--doesn’t like violence. He wouldn’t want Armie to fight.

Timmy hardly falters. “Armie, he was spiking that girl’s drink. I swear to god--he’s a piece of shit.” He flips the guy off and bares his teeth which sends the gnashing morons into another flurry of shouting.

That’s fucked up and if Timmy wasn’t here, these shitheads would be on the floor.

One of them steps forward, his garbled yelling too close for comfort. Armie turns around to face the guy stupidly brave in his Insane Clown Posse t-shirt now that it looks like Armie is simply pacifying Timmy. He thinks he’s in the clear to come at Timmy without consequence.

“Hey, bro. You need to tell your bitch-ass friend to mind his fucking business.”

Armie bites into the side of his cheek, rage boiling in the pit of his stomach and rising up like bile. He lets go of Timmy and eats up the space between them with one step, Timmy’s fists clenching into the back of his shirt. “You wanna say that one more time, _bro_?”

“I said you need to —”

Okay, fuck restraint.

Armie cuts him off by slamming his forehead into the juggalo’s face, the crunch of bone meeting cartilage visceral and immediate. In a flash of movement, the guy starts swinging and his friends let out a wail and react. They try to jump on Armie’s back but even in the blur of bodies and fists, Armie sees Timmy rushing in, dragging one of the guys off while Armie shakes the other, getting a boot on his chest before he can get back up.

“I’m going to step on your fucking neck,” he threatens, the asshole only able to roll out from under his weight when Armie gets wrapped up in Timmy fighting on his other side, one hand wrapped around the third guy’s ponytail while he punches out at the bleeding juggalo.

Timmy holds his own beautifully, striking out and recoiling at just the right times. Armie is rarely a witness to a fist fight from the outside, almost always the leading man in them. But now he finally understands why some of his past conquests had praised him for getting violent; the mixture of worry and attraction at watching Timmy throw fists is intoxicating. Armie finds its impossible to look away and not just because he wants to make sure Timmy doesn’t get hurt; it’s kinda hot as fuck.

Timmy’s focused grimace is almost a smile, his face cracking back under the force of a punch that lands but only for a second. He recovers quickly to pursue the juggalo, who’s running now, until he hops a gate and bolts into the parking lot.

Ponytail lunges again, unaware that his friends have bitched out and ran, but Armie takes him out with a clean right hook. He goes down on hands and knees, spitting half a tooth into the gravel before scrambling off in the direction of the others.

There is blood and spit all over the asphalt. And Timmy’s face, and both of their hands, and his shirt. There is no question when security comes to investigate as to whose responsible for the mayhem on the patio.

Armie and Timmy are asked to leave, but they’re hardly listening, so keyed up from the fight that they stumble out into the alleyway tangled together, kissing.

“Do I look cool?” Timmy huffs, laughing, running his tongue along the blood from his bottom lip and dragging it over his gums. He smiles wide, pink teeth bared. Armie grips the curls at the back of his head.

“You look insane.” His mouth is tender and swollen but the blood smeared across it is mostly Timmy’s. They kiss again. “Shit, I’m going to miss you.”

Timmy beams wider, making him look even more deranged. He reminds Armie of Halloween, of Timmy dressed like the Joker and how Armie’s heart felt fit to burst for him. It feels that way now. “Yeah, what are you going to miss most?” Timmy asks with a vexatious inflection in his voice.

Armie wants to say _everything_, because it’s true. Timmy is a pain in his ass on the daily but the thought of being away from his laugh and his smell and his cock makes Armie want to drop to his knees and beg him to stay. Luckily, his pride won’t allow for that.

He thinks back on their FaceTime conversation at dinner and repeats his sentiment from then. It’s a little simplified, but still true. “Your face.” He reaches out and drags a thumb over Timmy’s cheek, smearing blood and grime and glitter from mouth to high cheekbone. He makes a fist out of the sweaty, knotted curls at the back of his head. “Your dirty, pretty face.”

“Dirty?” Timmy breathes, moving closer. His voice has dropped an octave and Armie can see the glistening tip of his tongue against his bottom lip.

“Filthy.” Armie leans close to sink his teeth in. “I wanna fuck.”

“My face?” Timmy smiles into Armie’s open mouth and Armie hums, his body now buzzing with the voracious need to take from Timmy before he leaves.

“Everything.”

-

They order a lyft and text Saoirse while they wait, explaining that they’ve been kicked out but are fine and heading home. They don’t get a text back, but the music inside is loud and the girls are probably off their faces right now.

The driver looks scared shitless when they climb into the backseat of his grey Prius. Armie assures him that they won’t bleed on his seats and that they don’t need to go to the hospital, all while Timmy is giggling and squirming around trying to find his buckle.

He manages to belt himself into the middle seat but when Armie falls back next to him, he fully twists sideways to rub his hand against Armie’s rough cheek and speak to the hinge of his jaw, lustful and manic. “Your stubble feels so good, it tickles. I want it on the insides of my thighs.”

The driver coughs loudly and Armie grabs hold of Timmy’s elbow, leaving lovebites along the underside of his wrist. “Shhh…” he tempers, blindly guiding himself towards decency. They can’t fuck around in this car or they’ll never make it home, but he _wants_ to and the leash his restraint is shackled to is long. It allows his hands and mouth to wander.

On molly, time doesn’t make sense. Armie feels like he’s been laving over each of Timmy’s split knuckles with his tongue for hours, but the rave wasn’t that far away and there isn’t traffic at two o’ clock in the morning--there’s no reason they wouldn’t be home in fifteen or twenty minutes.

“When the driver gruffly announces, “we’re here,” they jump apart, staring at each other for a second, pupils the size of dimes.

Then Timmy is scrambling out and Armie is giving chase. He whoops, taking the stairs two at a time, zigzagging out of Armie’s reach until they make it to the door. Then he’s demanding, “in, in, in,” and slapping the painted wood while Armie fumbles at the lock.

He swings it open, out of breath, still vibrating energy from the club and the drugs and the fight. Timmy slinks into the dark first, but he doesn’t make it far, Armie tripping him up with a diving hand around his ankle. “Gotcha.”

Timmy goes down, knees hitting the hardwood, hands springing out to catch himself. His head whips around and he laughs, unhinged, his teeth on full display. “Nooo,” he trills, pretending to try and yank his leg out of Armie’s grip but only succeeding in giving Armie the leverage needed to drag him closer. Timmy’s Nikes flail in front of Armie’s face and he parts them to lower himself down, pressing his hard-on against the small curve of Timmy’s ass.

Armie hurries to untie Timmy’s jacket from his bony waist, then pushes his hoodie and all other layers up to his armpits, putting his tongue against pale skin as soon as it is available to him. He traces up Timmy’s spine with it, feeding the hoodie and flannel and shirt over his head in one move once he’s out of room. Timmy’s nape smells incredible, a mix of sweat and shampoo. Armie puts a hand around the front of his throat to lift him back and kiss it.

“Fucking, jesus. _Armie,_” Timmy mewls, panting with Armie caged over him. He swallows, his adam’s apple bobbing against the lines of Armie’s palm, and tries to turn over.

Armie keeps him like that for a few seconds longer, enjoying the way the muscles of his bare back shift against his chest, the way his ass fits perfectly against his pelvis. But soon the need to kiss Timmy’s ruined mouth overwhelms and he lets up, quickly peeling out of his own coat and t-shirt before ducking back in, face to face now.

The only light to reach the foyer where they’re laid out comes from the skinny window next to the door, a rectangle of blue light cutting them in half longways. Armie has his forearms on either side of Timmy’s head and gets lost in the shadows from his individual eyelashes, and in the way their bellies swell towards one another on each and every breath.

Armie’s eyes dance along the sparkles that have married with Timmy’s freckles.

Everything feels too good, and he can hold each touch in his mind at once. Their kiss is one sensation, different to the skimming of their stomachs, to the dark curls brushing his wrists. Armie has struggled to feel _anything_ for the better part of his life and yet here Timmy is, contradicting his lived-in nihilism by making him feel everything, all at once, just by _being Timmy._

As it turns out, existence isn’t meaningless.

“I wish I could, like, cut you open and bury myself in your guts, tauntaun style,” Timmy says desperately, lovingly, and Armie laughs, knowing exactly what he means.

He licks his way into Timmy’s mouth, groans at the heady pump of hips nudging against him. Timmy’s sneakers make a screeching sound when they slide against the wood panel floor in an effort to lever himself up.

Armie’s eager too but he calls Timmy out for being impatient and pushes his knuckles into Timmy’s chest, pinning him down against the floor. Timmy grunts and thrusts more sharply, his hands fighting to get Armie’s cock free from under his belt buckle. Armie smirks. “You’d let me fuck you right here on the floor, huh.”

His words must get the cogs turning in Timmy’s hazy mind because he suddenly fans both arms out and tries to sit up. Armie keeps kissing him, biting at his chin and under his jawline. “Oh my god, is Jack home?” he gapes, and Armie hums an assent before sucking the side of Timmy’s bottom lip into his mouth, unbothered. Timmy winces from the pain and Armie’s cock throbs at the faint taste of blood and saliva. “_Armie_.” His attempt to dissuade from fooling around in the open sounds half-assed but he does manage to twist around in Armie’s grasp, and scrabbles to get up.

Armie grips his bloody knuckles around the back of Timmy’s jeans and yanks him back down like a lion clipping an antelope in the sahara. Timmy belly flops and then they’re wrestling again, Timmy making a desperate break for the hallway only for Armie to trip him up over and over.

“Shh, stop!” Timmy hisses, attempting to whisper but out of breath and laughing. He reaches behind him and works to peel Armie off his back, moaning. “You’re—_fuck_—hurting me.”

Armie exhales a breathy laugh of his own, roughly jerking Timmy’s pants down until the mound of his ass is within mouth’s reach. He takes a hearty bite out of the apple of Timmy’s left cheek, knowing it’ll leave a mark and reveling in the thought of his teeth imprinted in yellow-purple bruising on Timmy’s butt while he’s away. Armie thinks to himself: _mine_ before asking Timmy, “Want me to stop?”

Timmy’s eyes are pure fire when he turns around, two bright spots in the dark and Armie knows that look, knows that it means _game on_. In a flurry they’re both on their feet. They stumble down the hall, knocking into every wall as they claw at each other’s clothes, biting messy kisses, drawing more blood. They trip over their own feet while they take off their shoes and socks at the threshold to Armie’s room.

Jack is going to wake up thinking he’s being raided by a SWAT team with all the noise they’re making.

“Fucking, come here,” Armie laughs, frustrated with how long Timmy’s taking to untie his laces. He gives up and kicks off the second one, dragging his heel to remove it completely.

Timmy is opened-mouthed and wheezing giggles; Armie can see pubes peeking through the gap of his jeans as he slips off his belt and unzips. He shimmies off his pants, stumbling slightly.

Armie’s slow-churning brain grinds through the fact that Timmy has been commando all night. Christ, he’s so fucking in love with this kid. Despite the mess he is. No,_because of it._

Armie snatches out an arm and reels him in like a yo-yo, catching Timmy’s chin in his hand to kiss his mouth before spinning him to face the wall of his room and slamming the door closed. The wave of air sends his curls flying and after Armie locks it, he can’t help gnawing the porcelain curve of his shoulder and biting into a fibonacci swirl of dark brown hair.

Timmy sets his hands flat against the wall, looking backwards, chin tilted down. “What’re you doing?” he asks, a velvet curiosity in his voice.

“Don’t move,” Armie instructs, dragging an eyetooth down the outside of his upper arm, consumed by the simple act of it before taking a look at the bigger picture again. He doesn’t want to just touch Timmy, or taste him. He wants to take him apart. “Wish I could eat you alive.”

Armie can feel the goosebumps as they come to life across the soft skin stretched over Timmy’s back. He wedges his covered cock against Timmy’s bare ass, pressing him into the wall, moving his arms to brace Timmy’s wrists and hold him firmly in place.

Timmy’s voice sounds hollow and rough against the plaster. “Fucking do it.” He arches, his backside pushing against Armie assertively, demanding. “Eat me.”

Armie is confused for all of one second before Timmy bucks once more.

Oh.

Message received.

He drops to his knees faster than a man in repentance. “Goddamn, Timmy.” He sounds wrecked, splaying a hand over each cheek to spread them apart.

Armie exhales softly, basking in the sight before him. Timmy’s ass is luminescent in the soft glow from the window, his curved body stark against the cheaply painted walls. The peek of his balls sway between his legs as he jerks himself off lazily and something primal rouses when Armie sees the grooves of his teeth imprinted in red at the top of Timmy’s left cheek. “Fucking mine,” he says, voicing his earlier thought, lovesick and smug that Timmy chose him. Then he moves in, licks a flat stripe of tongue against Timmy’s center, hands gripped tight enough to turn his knuckles white.

A poorly mounted frame slides off a nail and to the floor when Timmy bangs a fist against the wall. Armie doesn’t look to see if it’s broken and he doesn’t relent, dives deeper with his next sweep.

He could spend a lifetime eating Timmy out. He tastes like everything Armie loves about sex; sweat, musk, warmth. And Timmy is so receptive to it, unabashed and dripping moans, no doubt still feeling the booze and drugs, and high-flying from the fight.

At some point--Armie can’t deal with the concept of time right now--Timmy starts fucking himself back on Armie’s tongue and the two fingers that have slipped inside of him. His knees hit the wall every time he bends and arches and he’s speaking in tongues from above Armie’s worshiping alter on the floor.

Armie slips in a third finger after pushing more saliva from his tongue inside Timmy, easing away to watch his body greedily take it in.

“Stop, want you to make me cum with your cock,” Timmy mumbles against the wall, voice slipping away, his hips needy.

Armie staggers out a heavy breath and stands up, tugs his jeans down just enough to free his dick, wincing from the bounce of it against his belly. He is painfully hard and desperate to fuck, hands trembling with the need to get himself inside of Timmy.

“One sec,” he breathes, and spits in his hand twice; once to slap against Timmy’s prepped hole and another to coat his dick, making sure to smear as much precome into the mixture as possible before he presses the blunt tip against that first ring of muscle.

Timmy melts against Armie as soon as his weight is present, and the pressure of his cock is nudging in. He sighs, blissed out, and Armie pins the side of Timmy’s face to the wall with his free hand, telling him to, “keep still so I can fuck you like this.”

He has to stoop over a little to line their bodies up, but once he’s in, his hands find Timmy’s hips and snap them back to meet each thrust, Armie’s forehead leant against the wall next to Timmy’s face until he cranes for a kiss.

His jeans must chafe the backs of Timmy’s legs but he isn’t complaining, his verbal contribution stripped down to a litany of stretched out sounds. Armie sinks his teeth into the bridge of muscle between throat and shoulder, huffing violent breaths out of his nose on each pump of his pelvis.

Fucking Timmy is new enough that he thinks of little else, but practiced enough in the past month that there are few mistranslations anymore. Their bodies speak the same language, knowing what means _faster_ and what means _more_.

Timmy isn’t shy to ask what he wants, telling Armie once he’s close to, “Pull my fucking hair.” He’s grinning with his eyes closed when Armie wretches his head back, a fist in his nest of curls.

He’s braced to keep from smashing his dick against the wall, having given up on jerking off in favor of using all of his leverage to meet Armie thrust for thrust. “I’m gonna…” he starts, and Armie instinctively covers his mouth, faintly remembering Jack across the hall.

“I want you to,” he whispers hotly, speaking right against Timmy’s ear, speeding towards climax right along with him. They finish one after the other, Armie’s hips grinding to a halt against Timmy’s plush little ass and Timmy spraying the wall.

His nerves crackle everywhere they’re touching and for a moment or two, his entire brain whites out, vision cut, thoughts dropping into the void. His world is reduced to feeling and nothing else.

Timmy elbows him away sometime later, and he goes, ambling back as he stuffs himself into his jeans, calves knocking into his mattress before he falls onto it. He’s a sticky, sweating mess and so is Timmy when he drops down next to him, slinking over to kiss Armie while they catch their breath.

“Holy shit,” Timmy sighs, rolling over onto his back, neither of them reaching for the blankets. Armie should get up and wash his dick, but he’s too tired. He repeats Timmy’s summarization, blindly reaching to pat him on the thigh, and closes his eyes.

Before they drift off, his phone buzzes in his pocket. There are a few texts listed over his wallpaper but this new one is from Jack. He opens it and laughs, showing Timmy the three clapping emojis he’s just sent before clicking the screen dark again.

“Pervert!” he yells, hoping Jack can hear him but not listening for a response. His head is full of cotton and his bones are made of lead and he wants nothing more than to sleep now.

Timmy’s chuckle turns into a sign and then, before long, it’s a snore. Armie rolls over onto his side to spoon up against his listless form to find him in unconsciousness.

-

The week before Timmy leaves goes by irritatingly quick. Between both of their jobs, band practice to prep for recording, and Timmy doing what he needs to before he’s gone, Armie can hardly stand it. He is unnerved by the plethora of emotions nagging at him and ill-equipped to deal with them. So he doesn’t. He pushes any big reactions aside, figuring they can wait.

He’s not going to spend their final days together moping; he just _really_ doesn’t want Timmy to go. It had taken so long to get their train car back on the tracks and now it’s going off-roading. He can no longer see the clear path forward that he’d imagined when he first told Timmy that he loved him.

The landscape and the trajectory of _them_ has changed, and It’s scary.

Armie picks Timmy up from work every night leading up to his departure. They spend time sitting in his Altima in the Whole Foods parking lot, the windows down, sometimes making out, always getting high, Armie’s collection of punk cds on constant rotation no matter how much Timmy whines.

Once they’re ready to separate for the drive, they argue back and forth for a few minutes to decide where they’re going to sleep, his place or Timmy’s. Armie only argues back because he likes to see Timmy impassioned about staying with him. Armie doesn’t actually care where they sleep but he likes when Timmy calls him an asshole, that stupid sweet smile on his face, always followed by a quick slap and a rough kiss. Little shit.

Their last night together, Armie wants to call in to work but Timmy persuades him not to. He has a mountain of laundry to do and errands to run all over Los Angeles. “Boring shit,” Timmy tells him but Armie can hear the fault in his voice.

“I can do boring shit.”

Instead, they take a long shower together once morning arrives. Armie bullshits him about not having to go in until nine so that he can steal a little more time. It isn’t enough. He is still reluctant to leave and Timmy sways in the doorway of his apartment, his hair still wet from their shower, his cheeks still flushed from when they’d come in the shared circle of Armie’s fist.

“I don’t want to say goodbye yet,” Timmy mopes. He drags his fingernail down the sloppily painted door jamb. “It’s not, I dunno know, it doesn’t feel right.” He looks off towards Armie’s car parked across the street, over the cool mist of winter rolling in. Timmy is wrapped up in one of Armie’s sweaters. It’s hanging off of him, exposing one shoulder and hiding his hands, the tops of each thigh.

“I can meet you at the train station.” Armie offers, already plotting an excuse to leave work early. Timmy seems to perk up at the idea.

“Yeah?”

“Yeah,” Armie grins, making it clear that Timmy is silly for needing to confirm. Of course he wants another chance to see him before he’s gone, no matter how brief. They kiss softly and Armie rumples his wet curls with a grin. “Send me the address and your departure time. I’ll be there before you have to board.”

Timmy nods, following him out onto the doorstep for another kiss, clutching around Armie’s wrist and tugging him back in. “I’ll lock up and give you your key at the station, too.”

Armie shakes his head. “You are coming back, aren’t you? Keep it.”

That, of all things, has Timmy starting to cry and Armie can’t have it. He won’t be able to walk away knowing that Timmy is here crying on his front porch. Gently, Armie guides him back inside, and with Timmy smiling with wet cheeks at him, slowly pulls the door shut behind him.

-

Every second that ticks by, traffic in Los Angeles is getting shittier and shittier. Armie pulls at the knot of his tie, staring at the time in the corner of his monitor that he stopped working on an hour ago.

2:41 P.M.

He has been given the green light to leave at three under the guise of heading to a doctor’s appointment, but Timmy’s train leaves at 3:55 and it’s dawning on him now that there is an outside chance he won’t make it.

Jack is listening to a podcast behind him, clacking away on his keyboard, blissfully unaware that Armie is unspooling not five feet from him. They had lunch together and scratched the surface of his unsettled mood, but Armie thought keeping his anxiety in the dark would make it go away.

He is a fucking idiot.

As the day has worn on, his skull has taken on a second title as a pressure cooker, every single worry that he had pushed down boiling over into debilitating intrusive thoughts. Armie isn’t going to make it to the train, and Timmy is going to resent him for it. Then he’s going to be swallowed up by the glamor of tour, by the sparkling personalities he’ll be steeping in for a month, and come home someone else, who doesn’t want Armie anymore. What’s a second-rate drummer compared to the kinds of leading men and women he’ll be rubbing shoulders with?

“I’m so fucked,” Armie thinks, out loud apparently, because Jack rolls over into his chair and kneads both hands into the meat under his collar bones.

“Relax, buddy. You’re out of here in fifteen.”

Armie turns his head to look at Jack, too concerned with the time and his churning anxiety to put up a calm front. “I’m going to have a fucking panic attack.”

Jack’s eyes widen, owlish, and sensing the rattled vibe pouring off of Armie, he stands in his chair for a second to look around the office. Then he’ sitting back down again and spinning Armie’s chair so that he’s facing the opening of their two-person cubicle. “Just go. If boss-man comes looking for you, I’ll just, ehm, tell him you’re taking a shit or something.”

“You sure?”

Jack makes a face. “Duh. Now fuck off to your boy.”

Armie’s stomach crushes in on itself, anxiety shifting into anticipation as he bolts out of his chair, but not before smashing his mouth against Jack’s cheek in a graceless kiss. “I owe you,” he barks, and then he’s out of the office and down the stairs for the parking lot.

People in Los Angeles drive like they’re all on learning permits, but today their incompetence really gets under his skin. Armie shouts over the music in his car, slapping his middle finger against the rain-smeared window and even unrolling it to make sure the moron cutting across three lanes with their turn signal off knows exactly what they’ve done.

As a form of distraction from his rage, Armie’s mind supplies different scenarios that would mean him missing Timmy’s send off. Maybe there is a five-car pile up, or it’s a three-day weekend he isn’t aware of and everyone will be leaving the city at once, or Timmy gave him the wrong time and didn’t notice and is already hours away, up the coast by now.

He wants to call but his phone has slipped between the seat and the center console and his hand is too fucking big to squeeze through the gap and get it.

It’s still raining when he arrives and Armie only finds a parking spot in the far rear of the lot. He jogs the whole way to the entrance, his black bomber shirking most of the water, except for around his collar and hands where it’s made of wool. The upper front of his white button-up gets so wet that it’s nearly see through, but he shoulders his way inside without so much as realizing.

After the chaos of Friday afternoon traffic on Interstate 101, Union Station is jarringly quiet, everything gold cast and still, people corralled by their bags in leather armchairs. Armie loiters on the mat just inside, scanning the room for Timmy while willing his nerves to uncoil. There is a short line at the Customer Service kiosk and one or two overcoats mulling about the board showing departures and arrivals, but even at first glance he knows they’re not Timmy.

An old lady with a cart carrying a yappy terrier in a mesh purse shuffles past, frowning at him dripping all over the utility mat.

Armie’s heart is still slowing itself down after the dash here, thundering between his ears.

It stops altogether when a dark crown of hair turns, putting Timmy’s profile in stark relief against the backdrop of a brick wall. He is facing the other entrance, hidden by a sleepy-looking businessman in the chair attached opposite his.

Armie trips over his own breathing as an avalanche of preemptively missing Timmy crashes down against him. Everything he’s held back up and distracted away until this very moment flattens him. There was less than two weeks time between Timmy receiving this text offer from Matty and his leaving, and each day wasn’t long enough. He isn’t prepared.

Looking at Timmy now, unawares, from the front doors of a train station that is set to carry him away for over a month--as long as they’ve been a couple-has Armie feeling suddenly like he’s going to be sick.

This doesn’t feel right. Timmy shouldn’t go.

Armie is paralyzed by his looming departure. Every tick of the enormous clock overhead is malicious. He and Timmy are bad at communication when they’re in the same room. How are they going to make each other understand through a fucking phone?

“You look like a drowned rat.”

He’d been floating out in the cold recesses of space and is tethered back to earth by the sound of Timmy’s voice, warm and wry. Armie comes back to himself to find Timmy standing in front of him, duffle bag and backpack dumped next to his leg on the ornate tile floor.

“Hey,” he forces out, numbly reaching to put a cold hand against Timmy’s cheek, careful not to rub the healing scab on his lip. It is covered up almost immediately by one of Timmy’s in an effort to thaw him, his face turning to puff hot air against the cup of his palm.

“Are you okay?”

Armie gags over what he wants to say, how best he should phrase it. _Don’t go. I know how much you want this but it’s going to ruin things. It’s too soon. We’re too new, and it was so hard even making it this far. I don’t want to lose you. No, I can’t lose you. _

Timmy looks at him quizzically, placing his hand back against his cheek as though it might reconnect him to this moment. Armie lets out a heaving breath and cards his finger back through dry curls. He finds himself shaking his head. “I’m fine. Was just afraid I wasn’t going to make it in time.”

The gentle worry in Timmy’s brow lifts and he smiles, yanking on Armie’s soggy tie to be cute. “Thanks again for coming.”

Armie can’t tell him not to leave. If Timmy plays his cards right, tonight’s train will be a nonstop ride to his dream career. So Armie bites his tongue and he nods and he kisses Timmy, right here where anyone can see, hoping they do, because while he has this, he’s not taking it for granted.

Timmy makes a happy, surprised sound against his mouth and when they pull apart, he licks over his lips and says sheepishly, “I’m so goddamn hungry.”

There are a few minutes to kill before he needs to be up on the platform so they walk to the little convenience store and load him up with snacks, the most impractical purchase being a full-size advent calendar with assorted chocolates for each day leading up to Christmas.

Because today is the 6th, they pop open six cardboard boxes, playing catch up. Timmy’s second square is coconut and he gags, looking like a cat about to hack up a hairball. He opens up his mouth and plucks it off of his tongue half-chewed, presenting it to Armie with a smile. “Here,” he coos, but before Armie can accept or decline, Timmy is pushing it past his teeth for him to eat. Armie finishes the half-squished, partially warm chocolate and Timmy scrunches his nose. “Gross.”

The calendar doesn’t fit in Timmy’s backpack and they spend stressful minutes trying to move his shit around inside of it before he ends up tucking the cumbersome thing under his arm.

“Maybe I’ll buy you a bigger backpack for your birthday,” Armie tells him, and Timmy glares at him like he doesn’t want to be reminded of getting older right now, not when it’s going to happen on a day they won’t be together. Armie doesn’t want to think about that either.

Bustle and noise spin around them, everyone on the go, barely watching their luggage as they speed past. There’s feedback before every train announcement and the voice on the speaker isn’t loud enough, too much commotion droning it out. Any relay of information ends up sounding like the parents from Charlie Brown. _Wah-wah-wah-wah._

Someone elbows Armie on a sharp turn but with Timmy standing in front of him, looking at him like that, Armie’s customary bite is soothed by green-eyed attention.

“I should probably get to the platform,” Timmy explodes on an exhale after a few seconds of silence, pointing over his head.

They take the staircase nearby that brings them outside in the cold and rain, Timmy’s train is already pulled up to Platform A13. The doors hiss when they open and everyone who was crowded around or lined up to board surges forward in a hurry, their bags and rolling suitcases clattering as they rush to grab a seat.

Timmy doesn’t move. Armie watches him closely while he sways, from right foot to left, readjusting his backpack straps, brushing his hair aside, chewing his cuticles. His eyebrows tighten and relax, bottom lip starting to swell from being bitten.

“If you don’t board soon, you’re only option for a seat is going to be next to an old person or some girl who’s fighting with her boyfriend on the phone the whole trip,” Armie warns, making a face to let Timmy know that there could be nothing worse in the world.

Timmy‘s laugh is forced and full of nerves. “I don’t care.” He sounds so sad; it makes Armie’s chest ache.

“You will when—” Armie starts to crack another joke but Timmy bounds against him suddenly, knocking him a step back. He’s an extra twenty pounds with his backpack strapped to him. “Timmy…”

“I’m not fucking going. I’m not.” He squeezes his arms tighter and pulls his chin up to look at Armie, thrashing his head from side to side. “It’s a bad idea, Armie. And not the good kind of bad idea either.” Timmy pupils are huge and his lips are trembling. Armie wonders how long he’s been holding in this breakdown. With his own safely shelved again, Armie doesn’t know what to do except let Timmy ride it out. “My time off work wasn’t approved. I only got half of my shifts covered, the rest is—_fuck_. Daniel said he’d try to cover for me but I’m probably going to lose my job. And, shitshitshitshitshit.”

“Woah.” Armie grips his shoulders, trying to pull up on his downward spiral. “None of that matters. We’ll figure it out but right now you need to get your ass on that train.”

Timmy’s eyes are two blinks away from dropping tears. Armie hates when he cries but he hasn’t figured out what to do outside of standing by and waiting for the tears to stop. Though, he does like it when Timmy’s cheeks blotch up and his upper lip gets slick with snot, but Armie would never tell him that. Timmy would end up just using it as a secret weapon to get his way.

“We will?” Timmy asks and Armie analyzes his tone, how he sounds sad but hopeful. Armie deflates at the thought that Timmy might not think he’s in this 100%.

Armie reaches out to gently grip his jaw and force his gaze. “Hey, I’m not going anywhere. I promise,” he tells him, softly but with intention. “You’re going to go have fun on the road for a month and then you’re going to come back here and let me make you miserable again, okay?”

Timmy doesn’t want to laugh but he does, sucking back some of his snot and wiping his nose on Armie’s shoulder. His, “...okay,” sounds defeated and pleased at the same time.

A loudspeaker above them cuts through the rain pattering heavily against the metal overhang to announce the final boarding call for Timmy’s train. There are workers at each of the doors waving the few remaining stragglers in, walking by to make sure all the doors are clear.

Timmy’s expression snaps into one of fear again, so Armie kisses him, feeding everything he doesn’t have time to say into it. Then he’s pushing him away, a gesture he’ll spend the next month hating himself for.

Reluctantly, Timmy goes. He almost trips when he steps up onto the train because he’ looking back over his shoulder.

Armie considers throwing himself down on the tracks but instead he waits, watching through every window in an attempt to catch a glimpse of Timmy. He almost gives up when rapid movement a few feet away catches his eye. It’s Timmy waving at him aggressively against the darkened, scratched glass. Armie’s heart feels like it’s bursting, the sensation painful but good.

He walks a few spaces to the left to get a bit closer, steps around the other people lingering to wave goodbye to their loved ones.

Timmy is mouthing something to him through the window but even when he squints Armie can’t make sense of it. He shrugs and shakes his head, mouthing back _what?_ Timmy tries a few more times to get across whatever he’s saying but Armie’s not getting it. Timmy flips him off, laughing and rolling his eyes. Armie will miss that, too.

The train lurches forward and Timmy falls back into his seat. Armie can see his face drop as the locomotive starts inching along — Timmy is facing the wrong direction which means he’ll be traveling backwards the entire trip.

Quickly, Armie pulls out his phone and does something he knows he’ll get shit for: he sends Timmy a quick text.

Armie:  
I love you.

  
How could he have forgotten to tell him so before he boarded? Armie waves his phone, points at it, letting Timmy know he sent him something. Timmy looks confused until he doesn’t, his phone probably buzzing to announce he’s received a new message.

Even from down the platform, Armie can see Timmy’s jaw drop and his face flush.

Armie has to start walking along with the train now that it’s picking up speed but Timmy is out of view by the time he gets a texts back.

Timmy:  
you sappy bastard

Timmy:  
i love you too and i already miss you

-

Armie doesn’t put on any music for the drive home. He sits in silence with his thoughts, staring at grey skies and taillights through the speckled pane of his front window, and when he gets home, Jack texts that he’s going to pick up a pizza after work.

They sit in the front room and watch Kill List while splitting a jalapeño pizza and wings, but Armie doesn’t taste his food and he can’t keep the plot of the film even though he’s seen it before, years ago.

Timmy texts that he made it around nine o’ clock, and Armie asks if he wants to talk, but he’s being introduced to the bands and promises to call later.

Armie re-reads their text thread a few times before deciding to call it a night, eager to get away from this heavy feeling in his chest.

-

An entire fucking week goes by without Armie’s permission.

-

He feels like he can’t keep up with anything.

Dakota calls him the night before they’re set to record to tell him that the label wants to give their studio time to a more established band on the label so that they can get vocals laid down before the lead singer enters rehab.

It knocks everything off-center and they spend every day in meetings with executives. Armie has to take long lunches to accommodate them and work overtime at the office, walking out to an empty parking lot in pitch darkness each evening.

He hates it, sitting in big offices while people in suits talk at an around him. He is quickly coming around to the idea that maybe the rockstar lifestyle isn’t all it’s cracked up to be.

One night, Armie gets drinks with Jack which results in a formidable hangover followed by a huge argument with Dakota when he’s late to one of their meetings with the label. She yells at him about _needing to take this shit seriously_ and he is, but his mood turns so sour that he misses Timmy’s phone call that night and pays hell for it the next day.

After negotiations that go on way too fucking long, they finally settle on a deal: write two new songs and record a full length album in early January that will come out once they’re back from tour, plus a further $25,000 advance. It feels like it takes forever and part of his sanity to get there but when they sign the contract, he can’t help but feel accomplished. Somewhere in the depths of his angry childhood memories, a young Armie is pretty fucking proud of the grown-up he’s turning out to be.

Interwoven with the drama of his working life, is missing Timmy.

They try to squeeze in phone calls whenever they can but with wildly different schedules, it’s difficult. By the time Armie comes up for air around eight in the evening, the shows Timmy has to shoot are kicking off. And when he isn’t behind the lens, he’s busy with the other facets of tour life. Meeting new people, exploring new cities...

Timmy’s face is starting to blur around the edges in Armie’s mind because, despite his agreement to FaceTime, they still haven’t.

-

Friday night, Armie crashes into his bed after work and puts on LOST. He has no idea what episode they left off on but he presses play at random, strangely comforted by the familiar sounds of the show. He can almost feel Timmy snoring against his chest and startling awake when Boone and Locke find that plane in the forest.

The time on his phone tells him it’s nearing midnight when the episode is over. Timmy is in Minneapolis tonight, which means it’s almost two o’clock in the morning for him. He should be calling any minute now.

Armie dozes off and wakes to his phone buzzing against his collarbone.

“Hi,” he answers, his tone like a sigh of relief.

Timmy sounds distracted when he responds with a short, “Hey,” but Armie doesn’t take offense; he is used to him multitasking when they talk.

Timmy is one of those assholes that will cook dinner while balancing the phone on his shoulder, or maintain an argument with you about the electoral college while also chatting up the liquor store clerk as he pays for rolling papers and an Arizona Iced Tea.

“How was the set tonight?”

“It was good, yeah. Different vibe,” Timmy yawns, sounding like he’s laying back, maybe making himself comfortable in a hotel bed. The thought of Timmy and hotel rooms puts a bitter taste in his mouth but the pang of missing him is enough to mollify the memory.

“And the band is still cool, they’re treating you right?” Armie wasn’t familiar with The Japanese House but Timmy had played a few songs for him one night in bed after they’d fooled around before he left. Now Armie associates their music with the smell of sex and cigarettes. “Or have they finally revealed to be uptight indie-hipster assholes like I first suspected?”

Timmy’s laugh seems forced. “No. I told you, they’re chill.” They had talked briefly about Timmy’s introduction to the band and he’d only had good things to say, so Armie rarely questioned it. He isn’t sure why it’s on his mind tonight. “They’re cool.”

He senses something layered under Timmy’s tone but doesn’t scratch the itch of worry just yet. He clicks his tongue with playful disdain. “Yeah, as one of those uptight-hipster assholes, you _would_ say that.”

“Ha.” Timmy’s response is dry and sets off muffled warning bells in Armie’s head. Still, he tries to tune them out; maybe he’s just tired. “Funny,” Timmy adds as an afterthought.

Alright. Armie narrows his head and listens in closer when he asks, “you good?” as though pressing the phone harder to his ear would make a difference in deciphering Timmy’s mood.

“I’m fine.”

The warning bells morph into air raid sirens.

Fuck.

“Are you sure—”

“I said I’m fine.” There’s a soft inhale/exhale, the sound of lips lightly pressing together. Armie can picture Timmy hitting his vape pen. “Just tired,” he says with too much effort.

He’s obviously lying but now that it’s clear something is wrong, Armie is wary to ask what for a number of reasons. Half of their arguments are pointless, and the idea of starting shit right now makes Armie want to bash his head against the wall. He just misses the fuck out of Timmy and wants to hear his voice, at a reasonable decibel.

He tries a different approach, inept in this unfamiliar territory and fully winging it. Maybe what they both need is a release.

“Do you want to FaceTime? I don’t think the pictures you sent me earlier are going to cut it.” Timmy floods his phone hourly with photo updates and painfully adorable selfies but it’s third-rate to videos. First is the real fucking thing. “I need to see your mouth in action if I’m going to imagine it wrapped around my dick.”

Timmy doesn’t bite. “Oh, now you want to? You hate FaceTime.”

“But I don’t hate your face.” Armie is met with silence. He feels his irritation evolving, growing fangs. “Come on.”

“It’s fine. We have different priorities.” Timmy is clearly getting ruffled too. “You’re off the hook, for FaceTime or—whatever.”

Armie looks at his week from every angle, but can’t see where exactly he’s fucked up, winds up stumped and overwhelmingly frustrated. He stands up, wanting to demand an explanation by force but settling one rung lower with an assertive growl. “Alright, Timmy. I don’t know what the fuck your problem is but —”

“Do you even miss me?”

Armie crushes the phone in his hand, his cheap plastic case protesting. “Fuck off.”

There is a hollow hiccup of laughter on the other end of the line. “Oh, okay. I’ll just talk to you tomorr--”

“Stop. Don’t do that.” Armie takes a deep breath, scrubbing over the back of his head. He tries to realign himself, stop while they’re still ahead. “Why are you mad?”

Timmy doesn’t say anything for a long time. He makes Armie repeat himself, as sweetly as he’s able when Timmy’s being such a withholding prick.

Then his voice is back, but without any feeling. A silent and eerily calm Timmy is always more unnerving than an explosive one.

Whatever it is, Armie knows Timmy is in pain.

“I’ve been gone for a week and you haven’t even wanted to FaceTime with me until it’s to help get you off.”

Armie deflates instantly, dropping back down at the edge of his bed, peeling off a black sock with a hole in the heel. “That’s not--I always want to see you,” he sighs, looking around for a safe way out and knowing every step would be on top of a land mine. “This week has just been crazy.”

“It’s a button,” Timmy deadpans, the receiver rustling. It sounds like he’s walking somewhere or maybe just fidgeting where he’s at. With how late it is, Armie can only hope for the latter.

He thinks of open roads and lush fields and calm seas--anything that will keep his temper from rising. He knows it’s a fucking button. “So, can I press the button right now?”

Silence.

He lifts the phone away from his ear and presses the little camcorder icon unprovoked. It rings. Then rings again. Once more and Armie is about to throw his phone but on the last ring there is finally reprieve.

Timmy’s curls are the first thing to fan over Armie’s screen and instantly the rage that was bubbling dissipates. He stares down at his phone over his lap, watching as Timmy shifts into view completely, his face tired and sad and, “God, you’re fucking pretty.”

Timmy rolls his eyes but Armie sees a faint smile twitch at the corner of his sharp mouth; it’s bad timing but his cock throbs against his thigh.

“Where are you?” Armie asks when he can’t make out the background behind Timmy’s dimly lit silhouette.

“Hotel room. Day off tomorrow, so we decided to splurge.” Timmy pans the phone around the small room. Armie catches a glimpse of Timmy’s things everywhere, clothes erupting from his backpack. The kid can’t go anywhere without it looking like a bomb went off. He takes a hit from his vape, blowing out smoke to answer the question that Armie had been choking back. “Don’t worry, I’m not sharing a room with anyone.”

Armie decides to ignore the implications because it’s obvious Timmy’s still reeling for an argument. Armie won’t bite. But as they sit in silence staring at one another, Armie watching Timmy lay back against his pillows, clouding the screen with every hit he takes from his pen, he does want to kick himself for not doing this sooner.

Timmy seems to loosen up once he is sufficiently stoned. He snorts a laugh. “You’re so fucking annoying,” he says in a long exhale, rolling over to his side. “You’re holding the phone like,” his sentence breaks to laugh harder, “my Nana.”

Armie can’t help it; he laughs too. “Well how the fuck am I supposed to hold it?” He doesn’t know shit about angles. He moves the camera up and down a few times, purposely picking all the worst sides of himself to showcase on screen. Timmy wheezes and shakes his head.

“No one should look that good from that angle.”

They’re both grinning at each other now and it feels like a dead weight has been lifted. Armie didn’t realize he hadn’t been breathing properly without seeing Timmy’s face in real-time. The tension fizzles into soft static between them until it’s gone entirely and Armie is left feeling something he still isn’t used to: _soft._

“Stay on the call until I fall asleep,” Timmy whispers as he positions the phone on the opposite pillow. Armie watches him twist to turn the light off and in a blink the room goes dark, Timmy’s body now just a curve of detail against the wall behind him.

It only takes a few minutes of Armie telling Timmy about nothing in particular until he’s snoring. He listens for a few additional moments before ending the call, having no idea if they’re any better or worse off than when they started, but feeling fortunate nonetheless.

Bickering with Timmy is infinitely better than doing anything else without him.

-

“This is going to be the longest month of my life, Jackie boy,” Armie sighs, walking into the front room a little while later to find Jack still wide awake.

Jack gets up from the couch before he can sit down, giving him a sympathetic smile and a pat on the back as he passes. “You’ll live.” In the kitchen, he sinks down to retrieve two beers for each of them before coming back and pointing with his chin to the covered patio.

It hasn’t rained since Timmy left, so Armie doesn’t need shoes and decides against snagging his hoodie off the rack by the door. The gingerbread stout in Jack’s hands will keep him warm.

There is a half empty pack of American Spirits tucked into a potted plant outside by the slider. From his plastic chair, Armie is able to reach it, blowing off a few crumbles of soil. “Relationships are hard,” he grouses, pulling out a smoke with his teeth.

Jack sets him up with a beer and sits back, watching Armie click on his lighter and inhale. “Don’t be wanky. You and Timmy-boy will be just fine.”

“Says you.”

“Yeah, says me.”

Armie hums, nursing his beer and his cigarette, feeling the distance between himself and Timmy in the dark, chilled air. He pushes smoke out through his nose, trying to picture him sleeping, too far away.

A few cars sit at the red traffic light in the distance, though only the beams of their headlights are visible. December in Los Angeles comes with indecisive weather; tonight is cool and foggy, but by morning the sun will be shining long enough to go without a jacket. Next week it’s supposed to rain again.

Armie wonders how Timmy is dealing with the weather in the Midwest, worries that he didn’t pack enough layers.

Jack tapping away on his phone’s keyboard brings Armie’s attention back from Minneapolis. He ashes and thumbs the filter, looking curiously at Jack’s brightly illuminated face. “Do you ever worry about things with Dakota? I know it’s new but you know what I mean. You seem pretty full steam ahead and she startles easy.”

“You’ve mentioned that,” Jack replies lightly, turning over his phone, “but we had dinner with her parents last week. Until she asks me to slow down, I’m not going to pretend I don’t fancy her.”

“I don’t know if that’s admirable or just stupid.” Or intimidating. Armie would never have the balls to expose himself so willingly.

Jack’s laugh is a flickering flame, there and then gone, but when he speaks again he’s still smiling. “Just don’t wanna be playing games. It’ll do my head in.”

“What about all the girls I’ve seen you bring home before you met ‘Kota? You didn’t tease anything out with any of them?”

“Did you with yours?” Jack parries, blue eyes rolling towards him pointedly. He takes a long drink and Armie thinks about that, shakes his head.

He didn’t even store their numbers in his phone, generally. All those weeks he’d spent trying to fuck his system clean of Timmy, he never managed to get rid of him. Perpetually infected by those dark green eyes.

Maybe there is something to the phrase _when you know, you know_. “Well I’m rooting for you, man,” Armie tells him with a weary sigh, knocking the rim of Jack’s bottle with the bottom of his own.

Jack chuckles, “t’anks, you too.” He puts his hand out for the cigarette and Armie passes it automatically, the gesture pavlovian at this point. “Why are you still awake, anyway?”

Armie sucks his tongue over his teeth. “Call with Timmy ran late.”

A brisk moment of silence passes.

“That bad, eh?”

Armie shakes his head. It wasn’t, really. Timmy is just being dramatic and he tells Jack as much. “I guess I’m always just looking for signs that confirm my suspicion that this is too good to be true.”

“Jesus H Christ, mate. The boy is gone for you,” Jack reminds him with a thin voice, pulling in a lungful of smoke.

Armie takes the cigarette back and finishes it. “Mm yeah,” he huffs, “but he’s young. And I’m new to all this shit. Getting yelled at for nonsense like not FaceTiming. I keep fucking it up...”

He isn’t used to taking another person’s feelings into consideration which, admittedly, is a character flaw he should have started working through ages ago. Having your every action affect the person you care about most has made decision-making a nightmare. He is guessing at everything: when to call, when to back off, what to blow up about, what to let slide. And so far, he is batting a thousand for getting it wrong.

“There’s a learning curve to all of it. And right now, you just miss him,” Jack reasons and then a light bulb goes on. Armie sees it happen in his expression; everything is always plain to see with Jack. His eyes jump into comically large circles as an idea solidifies and he whips out his phone. “I know. Let’s look at his instagram, he’s always posting dopey shite about you. Might calm you down.”

Armie resents that. “I am calm,” he snaps, already pulling his chair around the little round table so that he can see what Jack’s doing on the screen.

He’s proud of his lack of social media, smug about how he's gone all these years without so much as a MySpace profile. Dakota is constantly ragging on him about making an instagram now that the band is rapidly growing in popularity but Armie is stubborn and refuses to give in.

He has no use for it. People don’t care what he ate for dinner or to see grainy videos of a band he’s seeing. He isn’t going to create a profile, but that doesn’t mean he can’t lurk.

The first thing that shows when Jack opens the app is a picture of a guy with ridiculous eyebrows. Jack names him when Armie makes a rude comment--Will--and taps the magnifying glass icon to pull up the search. Timmy’s name pops up almost immediately once he starts typing.

_tchalamet_

Jack is following him.

Timmy’s instagram is an eclectic assortment of images that somehow seem all-encompassing of who he is as a person. There are photos of food, meals Armie remembers eating together, scenic shots from different outings ranging from bars to the beach, and selfies sprinkled interspersed between all the rest that Armie is disheartened to be unfamiliar with. He doesn’t like the idea of people admiring photos of Timmy that he isn’t privy to.

There’s tons of photos of DLID, and more than a few of Armie. His stomach knots and heart clenches at a photo of the pair of them, one he hardly remembers taking, it’s blurry but happy, them both drunk and smiling with their faces side by side while they huddle outside on the patio at a bar.

Armie tells Jack to keep scrolling.

Underneath almost every photo, the same username is displayed in the top comments.

Armie squints at it as the images roll by. “Who the fuck is Truman Black?”

“Dunno,” Jack shrugs, pressing play on a video of Timmy’s feet. He’s walking and the camera pans up to Armie and Dakota striding in unison just ahead of him. It’s dark out and they’re downtown. Armie recognizes Dakota’s dusty pink jacket and the bar they pass; this was taken a few weeks ago on a night out to celebrate their deal with Luca Records. The caption is three vibrating hearts.

Jack clicks the phone off after they watch Timmy’s story from tonight; an image of his retro Nikes that have seen better days, followed by an all black video with something Bright Eyes adjacent playing in the background. A broken heart emoji floats in dark disguise at the corner of the screen. _So fucking dramatic_, Armie thinks with a smile. The last story is a screenshot of their FaceTime, Armie smiling and Timmy sucking on his pen.

Armie lets out a long, slow breath. He feels refreshed after seeing something substantial from Timmy, even if it’s just a curation of photos and videos on a screen. It’s still _Timmy._Those videos are his laugh, those captions are his words, that stupid gummy smile and crooked teeth are him; those artsy black and white set photos are his talent.

Timmy’s instagram feed makes him feel tangible again and like Armie isn’t so far out of the loop, stuck here in Los Angeles while he gallavants across the country.

Armie wasn’t aware of how present he was in these realms of Timmy’s life, even on social media, somewhere that Timmy knew Armie wouldn’t be looking for clues of his affection.

It’s comforting.

They drink until it gets too fucking cold outside and they’ve run out of beers, four empties fencing them apart on the table. Then he and Jack slap shoulders and Armie smirks a, “Night, motherfucker,” before slogging down the hallway to bed.

Against all better judgement, he downloads the Instagram app but can’t remember the log in or password for DLID’s band page. Instead, he drowns himself in all the photos and videos that Timmy has ever sent him, and that he’s taken on his phone--too few, he realizes.

Armie spends a special amount of time with the selfie that Timmy sent him long ago; pale, biteable thighs barely covered by the DLID shirt he gave him in the In-N-Out parking lot. Then he swipes to the one he took of Timmy in his Joker makeup on Halloween, his face smeared and dopey after their make out and confession in Dakota’s bathroom.

The memory stokes the fire that he’s always felt when it comes to Timmy and Armie turns over to sleep. He should’ve known it then and he definitely knows it now: if there’s anything worth fighting for in this shitty world, it’s Timmy.


	3. medicine

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thanks for your support, in its many forms. we love you.  
-cpx & oyb

Being on tour gives Timmy’s life immediate purpose.

It’s a feeling he’d sampled during his week on the road with Drive Like I Do and The 1975 back in October, and can confirm he loves — even without the added bonus of being surrounded by his favorite people.

Rising each morning with the knowledge that you are on exactly the path you’d forged in your mind is incredible. Touring can be tiring and dirty and it makes him violently homesick, but it also creates a deep-seated inner peace. Existential dread lingers cities behind him when he has such clear, attainable goals laid out upon waking each morning.

Amber Bain, aka The Japanese House, and Timmy warm to each other immediately, their first conversation lasting four hours and unraveling into a therapy session about her new polyamorous relationship.

Amber laughs through Timmy’s foreboding disclaimer: _I am the last person on earth you should ever come to for love advice._ She thanks him for listening anyway and once she’s done venting they flop together on the couch on the bus to look at photos of Armie. They share a joint between their cinched bodies, the paper burning away as it’s passed between their fingers.

“I’m gay, but even I’d think about it,” she muses in her assessment of Armie, eyebrows jumping while her mouth stretches into a frown that says she’s impressed.

Timmy covers his face, giggling. He feels pride swell in his chest, chin tilted at an unintentionally cocky angle. Well, maybe _slightly _intentional--he knows that Armie is a goddamn catch.

It’s the perfect start to four weeks trapped together in a studio apartment on wheels.

To ease the pang of being away from loved ones during the holidays, the entire road crew raids a dollar store for Christmas decorations early on and dresses the bus in garland, picking out plastic, obscenely glittered ornaments to hang. Everyone writes their names in puffy paint on poorly-sewed stockings that they line the front cabinets with, a row of red, felt boots swaying above the driver’s head, ever-threatening to fall. They fill a bowl with mini candy canes that go tumbling at each hard stop and when it isn’t mealtime, Timmy’s mouth almost always tastes like peppermint, his lips stained rosy by the artificial coloring.

The decorations are pathetic and lack any coordination, but it bonds them all together, a stand-in family forming in the absence of their real ones.

Days pass either on the road or exploring new cities with these new friends, Timmy squeezing off candids of tour life shenanigans when he isn’t being coerced into taking part. It’s fun, kind of like being at summer camp but with less mosquito bites and more freedom. As long as he’s around and documenting from time to time, his days are his own. Which, even a year ago, would mean sampling the contraband in every city, but now feels empty with Armie to experience it all with him.

He smokes weed and hangs out and has fun, but keeps himself focused on the real reason he’s here.

Timmy is one of the first people out of the bus once they arrive at each venue. Having created an extra photo assignment for this tour, he heads for the line that snakes around the walls of the building to spend time with the fans.

His concept is to take a portrait of the first person in line at each show, to put faces to the term _superfan,_ to humanize it. His goal is to get to know these kids enough so they’re not just another ticket sale, wants to give them depth and honor their commitment, love, and appreciation for their favorite bands. And everyone he meets for this project is lovely, excitedly chattering to him about how they first heard of The Japanese House, where they were, how long they’ve driven to be here. They let Timmy record their comments with his iPhone and they almost always ask for a hug when his time with them is over.

It only takes a few days of shows before people start recognizing him. Inside the venue, if he’s in the crowd or getting a beer, people will come over and say hi. They call out his name as he approaches, wanting selfies together. They even create a hashtag.

Having an internet personality built up without his design or consent is surreal, but he kinda likes it.** #wherestimmy** fills out with more and more posts as the dates roll by.

Amber thinks it’s hilarious. The day she discovers the hashtag she shares a photo of Timmy while he’s shoveling fries in his face and talking on the phone with Armie, captioning it: found the little bugger! **#wherestimmy.**

-

His nights usually don’t wind down until well after midnight, shows ending at eleven and after-parties kicking off once everyone has showered. It makes finding a time to talk with Armie difficult. He is busy too, with work on the weekdays and practice most nights, or a show, or obligations to his label. Some nights, the best they get is Timmy high and delirious at 3:00 A.M. calling just to say goodnight or falling asleep together on the phone.

Between both of their commitments, they can’t keep a regular schedule.

It eats away at him slowly, amplified by Armie’s lack of commitment in doing what he said he would. Fucking FaceTime. They have their first fight less than a week into tour but Timmy tells himself that it isn’t a precursor to how the rest of the month will go.

They have to get their shit together eventually, right?

-

Tonight, Timmy is out of breath by the time he shuts and locks the door behind him, using the heel of his sneaker as leverage to kick. He nearly trips in his rush to press against the wall of the family restroom at the venue, half-strangling himself when he pulls his camera from around his neck to set it down.

“I’ve got like, fifteen minutes before they start,” he huffs, balancing his iPhone between his chin and shoulder so that he can use both hands to unbuckle and unzip. He fumbles his phone, hissing when the sensation of his cool hand guides his half chub through the open gap in his boxers. “Better make me come quick, Hammer,” he goads, smiling, his teeth digging into the meat of his bottom lip. He swipes his tongue over the imprints left behind, wishing they were Armie’s.

“I don’t know, I like the idea of sending you out there with blue balls,” Armie breathes, low and devious. Timmy can practically feel his hot breath against his ear, leaning forward as though he might be able to reach it. His cock twitches at the memory of Armie’s mouth and what it can do to him, what it's doing to him now.

“You’re an asshole.” Timmy grins, but his chuckle fades into a sigh and for a split second, the ache of arousal is replaced with longing. “I miss you,” he whispers before he can stop himself.

There is affirming silence on the other end but when Armie speaks again it is, thankfully, to keep them on course. They don’t have time for this and, while sporting a boner during the set tonight is one thing, having to hold back tears would be horrible, and embarrassing. “Shut the fuck up and start stroking your cock for me, Chalamet,” Armie commands and Timmy swallows, closing his eyes, easily replacing the curve of his palm with the memory of Armie’s. “Good,” comes Armie’s reedy praise when Timmy starts panting into the phone.

Outside the bathroom he’s currently barricaded into, people are walking the hallway, their voices trailing back and forth while The Japanese House prepares to go on stage. Timmy’s heart hammers a morse code of panic when he thinks he hears someone calling his name but Armie’s molten vocals are still dripping into his ear. They bring him back to the matter at hand. Literally.

“Can’t wait to have your ass again, pretty boy,” Armie soothes and Timmy isn’t sure if it’s the visual that makes his insides coil or the use of his special pet name. “Are you wet?”

Timmy whimpers, nodding his head until he remembers that Armie can’t see him. If they had more time, they’d be facetiming this. “Yeah, yeah.” He circles his palm flat over the tip of his dick to smear precome, then spits into his hand to amplify the slick, moaning through raw lips and the echo of Armie’s voice. “Wanna fuck you, wanna kiss you, want your fingers and tongue and cock inside me — _shit_,” Timmy pleas into the void of their separation, drowning in reminiscence. Missing Armie is more physical than he was prepared for, but he’s still determined to come.

“All at once?” Armie smiles across the line. He still sounds composed but Timmy knows better, knows he’s touching himself too--a thought that sends him reeling. “I’d tear you apart.”

“Good,” Timmy grinds out, stripping his cock, barreling towards orgasm. The bathroom echoes the heady breaths falling from his open mouth and the vulgar, wet sounds of his fist rushing over his cock.

His knees flinch when he comes and he almost drops onto the unwashed tile, his spare hand springing out to support his weight on the pedestal sink nearby.

Armie sounds like he’s shouting into his knuckles a second or two later, before Timmy’s hearing is fully tuned back in. “I make a mess when you’re not here,” he grouses. “And it’s no fun to clean up by myself.”

Timmy is rickety and warm, tittering an uneven laugh through their call while he slows down his breathing. “Wish I was there, would lick you clean,” he simpers sadly, the memory of lapping come off Armie’s belly burning to life like a struck match at the forefront of his mind. Before he can 180 back into despair about the miles and weeks still between them, he says, “I’ve gotta go. Text you later?”

There is a beat of silence, then Armie telling him okay, and goodbye, and a remembered _I love you_ before they hang up.

Timmy makes it out of the bathroom and back into the crowd just as the lights go down for The Japanese House.

A thrill zings down his spine, cheers erupting from all around him as he wades into the perfect spot. Fans swell against him, overwhelmed, and his ear is still warm from having it pressed to hear Armie and his toes are still numb from getting off. He lifts his camera, afloat in a sea of pitch black energy and before the instruments come to life and Amber grabs the microphone, he takes a mental image of this moment for himself, bowled over by the staggering reality that _this is his life._

-

As dope as touring is, being away still sucks.

The symbolic purchase of the advent calendar he bought at the station with Armie brings Timmy a little comfort, at first. It works as a countdown to Christmas, but more importantly, to eventually getting back to Los Angeles. Each tiny cardboard door he rips open brings him closer to their reunion. That is until he and Amber get exceedingly high after a long day on the road and eat the rest of the days. He winds up with another coconut flavored piece and excuses himself to their tiny bus bathroom to cry.

Not even the stomach ache he suffers for the rest of the drive to Minneapolis cant take his mind off of missing Armie. He curls into a ball in his bunk and thinks about how the last day of tour is January 3rd, which will bring him home in the new year. He and Armie have only ever existed together inside of 2019, and even then, just barely at times. He is anxious for what awaits them in 2020, a year that sounds more like something out of a sci-fi movie than his immediate future.

The crew spends the next afternoon at The Mall of America and Timmy flits from store to store, driving himself mad about what to get Armie for Christmas. The thing is, Armie doesn’t _like_ anything, and as he passes through countless boutiques and stereotypical big brand stores, Timmy realizes that he doesn’t like anything for him either. A pastel pink cashmere scarf waves at him from one upscale window and Timmy smiles, pausing to imagine sending it First Class Mail to Armie’s apartment, the look on his face when he pulls away the tissue. Armie would _hate_ it, but he would wear it. Timmy wagers that Armie would wear an oversized foam cowboy hat if he were the one to buy it for him.

God, he misses him.

Eventually, Timmy ends up in a shoe store -- Dr. Martens. It doesn’t take long to locate the same classic, pair of docs that Armie’s been stomping around in for the better part of ten years, or so he’s been told. _Who wears the same pair of shoes for ten fucking years?_ Timmy had guffawed one evening back home. He dazes off while the employee runs back and grabs the size he needs. The same night that Armie had been adamant that his boots still had a few years left in them, Timmy remembers drunkenly trying them on, making a fool of himself as he trudged around doing his best Armie impersonation.

Timmy laughs out loud when he recalls Armie calling him a ‘donut’ after Timmy had read his shoe size from the faded print on the tongue and renamed him Sasquatch. His outburst earns a few odd looks from other shoppers, but he doesn’t have it in him to care.

He feels exhilarated after his purchase, confident that this is going to be the perfect gift for Armie. He shoves the box into his backpack and hustles to meet up with Amber and the others at the food court after having ditched them over an hour ago. Timmy is red-cheeked and sweating by the time he makes it back, thinking that maybe he shoud’ve just gone with the ugly pink scarf because -- fuck, these boots are heavy.

-

The tour stops in Missouri the next night.

“Escape rooms are so lame,” Timmy whines but tags along anyway when Amber insists he join her, seemingly endeared by his persistent complaining, thank god.

Timmy’s mood has been increasingly unpredictable, like two idiots trying to work a teeter-totter. Up, down, up. Knocking him flat on his ass. But he keeps it buttoned in while he’s working and the rest of the time, Amber is keen to listen to him mope. “It’s a refreshing change of pace from us Brits,” she’d told him one afternoon while they’d been sitting at the small, fold-out kitchen table on the bus with two bowls of cereal, “we like to just repress any and all emotion until, at last, we go tits up and die without a fuss.” Timmy had laughed, leaning his head against her shoulder, lamenting about how much he’d miss her once the tour was over through a mouthful of Cocoa Puffs. Her words had played on repeat in his mind throughout that day and though he knew she was just joking, he couldn’t help but think of Matty and how poorly that particular stereotype fit him. Matty never held anything in, especially his feelings. It was one of the things about Matty that always made Timmy with his constant swarm of emotions feel validated, normal even.

Armie, however…

-

After the escape room with the crew, a feast of sushi, and Timmy downing a few too many sake bombs, they head back to the venue. He’d kill for a nap but instead refills his water bottle and cleans his DSLR. Rain or shine or sake downpour, the First in Line project awaits.

As he walks closer, Timmy burrows into the high collar of his outerwear and adjusts the stray of his camera, checks the settings, squinting a little from the buzz of alcohol still burning through his chest. He snaps a photo with the lens cover on to mark his spot. It will remind his future self that the next photo he takes is a front-of-the-liner.

Timmy isn’t sure how he’s going to release these images. The photobook of the 1975/DLID tour has been sent off to the publisher with final edits and will be printed by the time he gets back home. He’s envisioning a gallery event for the release, but can’t fathom planning for it while he’s still on tour, so he doesn’t.

This First In Line project will sit on an SD card for a couple of months before anything from it sees the light of day, but he’s already stoked. It feels personal in a way that surpasses the shots of Matty and his band, and even of Armie, because Timmy was that kid once, the one clamoring to get barricade for all of his favorite artists. Whether it was a dive or an arena, he wanted the religious experience of seeing his idols up close and knowing that they’ve seen him too.

There are already about twenty people sat against the building single-file when he rounds the back corner of the venue. He admires their dedication, especially in these midwest temperatures. He’s been spoiled by the California sunshine for too long but remembers being a teenager in New York, unbothered by the grey-colored snow that lined buildings while waiting outside a venue, remembers loving something so much that comfort didn’t matter.

Documenting this communion between fan and fixation feels like a worthy cause.

Two girls and a guy in a pair of green sunglasses wave at Timmy excitedly once he’s a few strides away. He looks up when they call his name and smiles, nervously walking over with flushed cheeks and slumped shoulders. It’s surreal, being recognized by total strangers and for doing what he loves.

“Oh my god, Timmy. We were starting to think you weren’t going to show up!”

“Whaaat,” Timmy laughs awkwardly. “You guys were waiting for me?” They laugh and tell him about how they’ve been followers since he toured with The 1975, how they made sure to be the first in line so they could be part of this new project he’s doing. They ask him when they’ll be able to preorder his photo book. He babbles at them incoherently, flattered and flustered and turning pink. He’s unprepared for these conversations, no matter how frequent they’ve been. “Er, I don’t know yet. I’ll post it on instagram when I have a date. You’re so sweet, supporting me. Wow.” He thanks them repeatedly and they laugh with big eyes and smiles.

A girl in a billowy striped sweater scoops ringlet curls out of her face. “How’s Matty?” she asks while he fiddles with the f-stop on his camera.

His gaze snaps up. “Yeah, good. I think,” he huffs, backing away a few paces. The person in front of her, the subject of tonight’s portrait, blessedly steals her attention to ask whether or not there’s anything stuck between her teeth.

Timmy is grateful for the break in topic, not allowing himself time to fixate on why she’d ask. He checks his light meter again before disappearing behind the lens and squeezing off a few photos, giving time for the girl staring down his camera to get a little more comfortable. She has dark eyes and a severe haircut that cuts stylishly into her jawline. The growing line of people behind her are abstracted by the short depth of field he employs.

Once he’s confident he’s snapped something good, Timmy takes a few more pictures of the eager crowd, chatting with them about which songs they’re most amped for and what else they listen to. Some people ask for selfies, showing him their posts with the **wherestimmy** hashtag before they go live. All Timmy can do is shake his head and laugh, which seems to only spur them on, more kids from the back of the line calling him over to chat, mistaking him for someone important.

The same girl from before stops him once more while he heads back up the line. She asks him to let Matty know that there are people who love him in Missouri and hands him a small gift to give to Amber. She also mentions how she’s a huge fan of Drive Like I Do, and that she thinks him and Armie make a cute couple.

It’s dizzying to think that these are the people he’s associated with now. In life, in his career, in love.

As the sky bruises with impending darkness, he decides to retreat to the green room, wanting look through what he’s captured this afternoon, and maybe grab a beer. He says goodbye to a chorus that echoes the sentiment and takes his leave. His press pass dangles at his waist in a plastic protector, clipped to the belt loop underneath his left hip. He shows it to the people at the front doors and ducks into the dimly lit concert hall.

During his walk over the gum-pressed concrete flooring of the back hallway, he turns over all the ways that this tour matches up against his first.

There are some things that carry over, like the afterparties filled with excessive drinking, musicians constantly messing with their instruments, writing, bullshitting to pass the time, endless havoc in parking lots at the end of the night, smoking until their lungs are sore. Even the fans, though incredible, mirror the ones that filled the crowds for the 1975 and DLID. Dedicated, passionate. All venues are the same, just in different colors and shapes, the occasional argument with the owners concerning where they should park the bus.

The cities are different, this tour having taken Timmy across state lines he wouldn’t be able to point out on a map. It’s opened a sense of wanderlust in him; he’s already itching to get overseas after listening to Amber rave about her hometown. It reminds him of how Matty always talked about Manchester.

Amber is incredible, as are her touring band and the crew. Timmy has fallen in love with everyone for who they are, hopelessly attached and unwilling to think about the goodbyes that are weeks away.

He wonders--if he’s lucky enough to continue doing this--if every subsequent tour will feel the-same-but-different. A curated world he gets to guest star in, meeting people, building friendships and experiences that will layer into him as he gets older.

Immediately, that becomes his aspiration, to grow into the person he will become through taking pictures on the road.

-

Instastories from Los Angeles give Timmy terrible FOMO and soothe his homesickness in turns. He learns not to sit and scroll too often, choosing instead to read while they drive or watch Mark’s subtitled foreign documentaries. It’s the first time in a long time that he’s felt present enough to get through an entire book. Long stretches of freeway afford him the focus for it. There is little to divert his attention.

They are gassing up at a station planted into an expansive patchwork of fields. Timmy is lazing on the couch in longjohns with Amber while people stock up on snacks when he remembers that today is Saoirse’s first day at her new job. He sends her a quick good luck text and checks his feed for any updates. All she’s storied is a picture of a caprese salad in a plastic container and a juice. Yummy, but not exactly riveting. He decides to see what the rest of the west coast is doing.

Ansel’s story is the next to load--Timmy has thought about unfollowing, but there’s no bad blood between them, at least on his end anyway. In his singular post, a pretty brunette with a tiny waist is smiling at the camera and wielding an ice cream cone as big as her fist. They’re together now, Ansel and this girl from work, Violetta. Timmy never suspected her of having designs on Ansel while they were dating but, honestly, Timmy is happy that Ansel’s in a new relationship. It softens some of his residual guilt over how things went down.

Daniel from work showcases his nonslips from the break room at Whole Foods, followed by a photo of a movie ticket stub a few hours later--an early screener of the new Star Wars film.

Lily-Rose, the actress that Timmy took headshots for months ago, pulls up next. She had started following him the day after he’d emailed over samples from their shoot and he followed her back out of courtesy. From what he can tell, she seems cool. Her story today consists of her uglycute cat, and a selfie of her angled carefully in bed, sunbeams strategically painted over her cheek from the window nearby.

He skips over the next few until he gets to someone that stirs emotion. Amber tugs down the blanket that they’re sharing to cover her foot as Dakota’s queue starts playing.

She documents her entire day online. Videos, still shots, selfies, reposts. Her first few stories are of the outside of a yoga studio, her legs in black workout gear walking down the pavement, some flavor of smoothie cupped loosely in one hand. Then it’s a picture of her face in sunglasses and a knit cap, and a boomerang of a corgi shaking its butt. After cooking lunch at home and gushing about Rushmore in text over a still of Jason Schwartzman’s face, she films Dev pulling into her driveway to pick her up for band practice, the video slathered in fire emojis and glittery pink gifs that say _babe alert_.

Timmy’s heart gets excited. It hops around inside his ribcage like a plucky, skittish bird. He taps through a few videos of music dubbed over long shots the road looking for Armie.

The video he finally shows up in was posted 39 minutes ago. Timmy holds his thumb over the image of him when it first shows up, just wanting to look. His excited bird sings. When he lifts his touch away, it plays.

Armie is staring at his own phone, hunkered into the shade of the warehouse so that he can make out what’s on screen. Dakota’s voiceover is mock-angry. “When you catch your boyfriend talking to his boyfriend,” she gripes, closing in on Armie, who turns automatically and glares. A tiny image of Jack on FaceTime sharpens and Timmy can see that he waves, Jack’s, “hi babe,” sounding slightly tinny on the recording.

Then suddenly the video cuts, replaced by an image of her boots propped on top of her guitar case. He doesn’t want to watch it again.

Timmy swipes out of the app and pockets his phone, hurries to stand up. The shared blanket slips down to the floor. Amber quirks an eyebrow at him, huddled at one end of the couch with her adult coloring book.

“I’m good,” Timmy assures her. “Gonna nap.” He threads himself out of the lounge area and heads for the rear of the bus, sweeping back the long, narrow curtain of his bunk so he can climb inside. He pulls it closed once he’s crumpled into the coffin of space and stares up at the low ceiling.

Timmy’s fingers itch to make a call, but his eyes are pricked by the threat of tears, and until he can articulate exactly why, he resists scratching the urge.

He pokes the bruise left from Armie’s mouth that sits at the top end of his ass instead, surely faded yellow by now. Almost gone. He presses his fingerprint into his skin in a feeble attempt to resurrect the ache.

His phone plays a playlist of classical music while outside it rains, and at some point, he falls asleep

-

He rocks inside of his bunk while the bus lumbers over the state line into Utah, hail smattering the tinted windows. He tosses and turns with a pillow over his face to block out the fluorescent cabin lights that always creep under the pleats of his curtain. The music playing next to his ear has shifted genres, sounding twangy and sad with a lone girl on vocals. It’s pretty but only nurtures his melancholy.

The bus eventually stops again, brakes moaning, and people start to move about like they’ve reached their destination. Timmy lays still for a few minutes longer, listening to the hissing machinery and voices as they fade out until he finally drops out of his hidey-hole and onto his feet, his legs numb from being awkwardly folded. Pins and needles all the way up his shins.

He Frankensteins around the small aisle to find that Amber isn’t on the bus. No one is.

Timmy feels bleary and off, swiping his camera from the table to get his shot for today’s First In Line entry before the crowd is ushered inside. He doesn’t care to check the weather outside, having accepted that anywhere that isn’t Los Angeles is just too cold. So he layers up in flannel and denim and after dragging his fingers through the tiny knots in his unruly curls that have bunched and tangled between his pillow and the mattress, shoves on a beanie as well.

Timmy doesn’t hang out for long outside the entrance doors once he’s captured his portrait though, only throwing up a few peace signs for selfies before retreating out of sight again. He doesn’t have the energy, which clearly shows. People tell him he looks sleepy, and he grins, combs a hand over his face and tells them Merry Christmas, early.

Behind the venue for a smoke break, he tries to call Armie. It rings and goes to voicemail and he tries again, desperation growing despite not knowing what he wants to say.

He fires off a text

Timmy:  
hey

Nothing.

A curdled image of old messages to Ansel jump to mind. Timmy is always the one reaching out. How long before Armie’s response time matches what Ansel’s had slowed to by the end of their relationship? He was leaving TImmy on read for days at a time, forcing him to sacrifice his dignity to straight up nag Ansel about communicating with him.

He sucks the end of his vape but groans when he realizes that his cartridge has run out. Fuck.

Whatever feeling Dakota’s IG story had impregnated him with is still gestating.

Han, one of the lighting technicians for the tour, waves awkwardly and Timmy shelves his frustration in favor of bumming a cigarette. They chat about nothing of consequence and all the while Timmy’s mind is on his pocket, waiting for it to buzz with a callback, or a text to say why he can’t. Band practice should be over by now. What is Armie doing?

Dakota referring to Jack as Armie’s boyfriend ricochets around his head like a bullet fired into a steel box. It leaves him feeling dented.

“Did you eat yet?” Han asks, conversationally Timmy hopes.

He thinks about it and shakes his head. The only thing he’s ingested today is negativity, and a handful of hot cheetos.

“I had the chicken strips and fries at the concession. They weren’t half bad.”

Timmy hums, flicking his cigarette at the toe of his boot. Of course Han wasn’t hitting on him. Why would he think that? A dull ache of disappointment spreads over his ribs. Not even the tech guy wants his attention.

“Oh yeah?” he asks, looks back up and puts on a smile. “Thanks for the tip. I’m going to order some before Amber’s set.”

His phone is a cold brick in his front pocket when he pats Han on the shoulder and goes inside.

-

Timmy doesn’t have a missed call waiting for him when The Japanese House finishes their encore, but when he calls Armie back in the cushy green room with the sadistic intention of leaving 50 missed call alerts so that he feels bad, he answers.

“Hey!”

Timmy was expecting him to have an excuse ready for why he didn’t pick up earlier, or even try to hit Timmy back, but he sounds boisterous and blissfully unaware.

His enthusiasm is grating, which is why Timmy doesn’t check himself before he word vomits up the sentiment that has solidified in his gut throughout the day. “I can’t believe you’re fucking facetiming Jack now,” he spits, looking up to see if anyone is paying attention but finding this callout too cathartic to care.

Armie’s happy, rumbling voice disappears for a second. “What?”

Catching him off guard gives Timmy the high ground. It feels good. He wordlessly takes an offered beer from one of the roadies and pulls down a mouthful before answering. “Dakota posted a video of you talking with Jack on FaceTime.” He says it like he’s caught Armie red-handed.

“You’re the one who wanted me to use it,” Armie says, sounding baffled. There’s no heat in his voice yet, no reactive bite.

It does nothing to lighten Timmy’s mood. “It’s just,” he pauses, thinking about it, feeling the weight of disappointment pushing him down into the couch, “I had to _beg_ you to video chat with me when I was going to be thousands of miles away, but now you can’t go an hour without looking at your roommate? It’s fucked.”

The party being stoked around him is getting louder, more rowdy, but Timmy is still able to make out Armie’s deep sigh on the other end of the line. He sounds like he wants to argue but is resisting, his tone tight and measured. “He was at Home Depot trying to figure out which dryer plug we needed to buy. That’s all. And I was being a dipshit about FaceTime, I thought we’d decided that already.”

Armie _is_ a dipshit, but Timmy’s feelings are still hurt.

His bad mood wobbles. He’s reluctant to soften, wanting to stay mad, feeling comfortable in his anger. But Armie’s lack of pushback is making it hard. “She called you Jack’s boyfriend,” he says petulantly, looking down into his beer, scrubbing at the corner of the label with his thumb.

Armie’s voice when he speaks again is coming out of a smile. “You’re my boyfriend,” he reminds TImmy, “my fucking, crazy, gorgeous boyfriend. Come home already.”

A grin fights its way onto Timmy’s face. “You better not be facetiming people,” he whines, failing to sound aggressive in the least.

“I’m not,” Armie tells him, “I swear. Now tell me about your day. You’re in Salt Lake, right?”

Timmy rolls his eyes, fond. “Yeah. It’s fucking cold.”

“With the way you dress at home, I can’t even imagine. You must be walking around looking like the goddamn Michelin man.”

Timmy lowers his voice, biting into his grin. “That get you hot?” he teases, “thinking about me in all those layers? T-shirt, t-shirt, long sleeve, sweater, sweater, sweater...” A few people in the room catch his conspiratorial tone of voice, their eyes swiveling over. He waves them off with silent laughter.

Armie pretends to ruminate on the idea. “Mm, I wouldn’t have the stamina to undress you. Too much effort.”

“I’d help,” Timmy tells him in an almost whisper, turning his face towards the back of the leather couch to mumble into the crevice of his shoulder and armpit.

“Or I could just use your mouth.”

Timmy feels his face flare with warmth and stands up, breathing laughter with his rushed goodbyes to the room.

“Show me your dumb face,” he tells Armie once he’s in the hall, speeding towards the back doors and the bus.

The FaceTime jingle immediately fills his ear and he lowers his phone, swooning, to accept.

For every foul mood Timmy has found himself in so far during this tour, there is always one trusty cure-all.

Armie, as infuriating as he can be, is his medicine.

-

Things feel rebalanced between Timmy and Armie for all of twenty-four hours.

They spend the day texting off and on, a new habit forming between them that Timmy feels a cocky sense of pride over. _Armie Hammer is texting him._ He’s given Armie’s name an embarrassing amount of emojis next to it so that it’s obnoxious but obvious who is messaging every time an alert comes in.

Armie:  
Currently standing in line at FedEx listening to two guys in front of me loudly complain about how “terrible the process is here!” “Yeah... if Steve Jobs walked in here he’d shut the place down!” .... it’s almost Christmas bros, maybe you should have planned ahead.

Timmy laughs out reading Armie’s message. They’re always random; passing thoughts through the day, or anecdotes about encounters with people, occasionally a deep thought about politics. It makes Timmy feel special in a way that he hadn’t expected. Being able to steal glances of Armie’s day through his long-winded, detailed texts makes Timmy feel closer to him -- even if Armie’s responses are far and few between.

Timmy responds with a few laugh-cry emojis.

-

At midnight, it’s fucking freezing outside, but there are already people winding down on the bus that Timmy wouldn’t want to disrupt, all with hangovers that have lasted throughout the day.

He could just text Armie again, but for some reason he’s really missed him today and he knows the chances he’ll get an immediate response is slim to none. His throat tightens with longing, closing painfully with the deep-down kind of missing someone that hurts even when you breathe. It makes him feel weak and dramatic, but he just really wants to be back in Los Angeles tonight, needs Armie crushing him into a hug and nosing up his neck and telling him a heinous joke instead of kissing his ear.

Timmy’s fingertips feel numb when he navigates to Armie’s bedazzled name in his phone. He taps to FaceTime and shelters the lower half of his face in the collar of his gray coat, waiting. His breath pours through the thick wool fibers as a plume of fog. There’s no answer but before he can overthink it, he presses the regular call button.

Ring.

Ring.

He fears a repeat of yesterday, holding his breath, steeling himself for Armie’s voicemail. But as he’s lifting the screen away from his ear to hang up, the call finally connects.

Armie’s voice bursts through the phone. “Pretty boy!”

There's a commotion in the background. People shouting. Timmy winces, hovering the receiver away. “Hi. What are you doing?”

“I’m out,” Armie tells him, “at a friend’s house. How was your day? And the show?”

He isn’t slurring but he sounds loose, speaking loudly and fast, on an up. The divide between their moods feels too far to bridge. It’s been a long day. His feet hurt. He’s ready for sleep. He bends his neck to the side to release some of the tension in his muscles, feeling strain over the idea that Armie isn’t aware of his soured state. “It was good. Somebody puked in GA right before Amber went on and the crowd just trampled all over it to rush the stage, it was rank. You out with Jack?”

Armie doesn’t respond right away. Timmy tries to make out what he’s saying to someone in the room with him. When Armie’s mouth is close again, he’s eating. “Nah. Him and Dev are pretty much fucking married now. I can only third wheel so often, it’s boring.”

Timmy’s stomach turns over, but he fights to keep his voice light. “Makes sense, honeymooning and all that.”

Armie doesn’t respond, maybe doesn’t even hear him.

Timmy clears his throat. “So... who are you with?”

There is the dying end of a laugh in Armie’s voice when he says, “Oh, you don’t know them. Just some buddies from college.”

Timmy knows that Armie has friends that exist outside of the music scene, but he’s never met them and the few times that Armie has mentioned them have been weaved into his more reckless tales. Timmy tries not to spiral into the collection of stories because he knows if he does, he’ll panic.

He presses his nose into the palm of his hand, trying to warm it, beginning to wonder if the quality of this conversation is worth the cold. “Well maybe I should let you go.”

“Okay, I can call tomorrow on my lunch break--hey, I can cut that.”

Timmy squeezes the phone. “What’d you say?”

“Sorry,” Armie grins, “I was talking to Tyler. You’re probably tired. What time is it there?”

“Midnight,” Timmy mutters, trying to smother a ballooning swell of anxiety. “Are you getting high?”

Armie’s tone shifts, more controlled. “We’re just hanging out.”

“Don’t you have work tomorrow?”

“Relax, kid. It’s only eleven here.”

Timmy scoffs, pulling his phone out to look at it as if he’s suddenly realizing he may have dialed the wrong number. “Kid?” he questions, and Armie just snickers. What the fuck. “Are you serious right now?”

Someone’s voice fills the chasm of space between them and Timmy spirals fully now, tearing into his cheek, his heart pounding away in his chest while his stomach wrings into knots. He wants to punch something, or cry, or just scream but instead he takes a shuddering breath and closes his eyes.

“Are you okay?” Armie asks but to Timmy it sounds half-interested. Like obligation. “Do you want me to go home or something?” Timmy rolls his eyes, clicking his jaw.

“No. I don’t care what you do.”

Armie sucks a breath between his teeth. “Are you sure,” he asks, his voice sing-songy and playful. Timmy seethes. “Or is this one of those ‘I’m fine but not really and I’m going to fucking kill you later’ things?”

It doesn’t seem like Armie’s particularly bothered about either possibility. His flippancy undercuts any concern for Timmy’s feelings. “Let’s just talk later. You’re obviously busy,” he drones, free hand balled into a fist. He should be wearing gloves.

“What the fuck,” Armie says almost cheerily, but the laugh he barks out is mean. “It’s like, all you wanna do is pick a fight with me lately.”

Timmy can imagine faceless strangers standing around while Armie talks on the phone like this in front of them. They are probably forming opinions about him right now, wondering who the fuck this high-maintenance _kid_ is that cajoled their Armie into dating him.

He takes a steadying breath. “Well it’s easy when you’re such a fucking asshole all the time.”

Armie hisses, pretending that he’s wounded. ‘Yeah, god forbid I videocall my friend for five minutes to pick out a dryer plug. What a dick, right guys?”

There is a lazy roll of laughter in the background and Timmy has to shut his eyes against the start of frustrated tears. “Fuck you,” he whispers through grit teeth, his voice trembling. “Have fun at your party.”

He kills the call and throws his fist, fingers clamped around his phone to keep from actually launching it. Even though he’d love to; it’s caused him nothing but problems.

Snow dances in a flurry through the wide beam of light from the post lamp he’s standing near as hot tears roll down his cheeks, bitten immediately by the freezing cold. Timmy swipes at them, envious of Armie’s stoicism. He just truly couldn't give a fuck right now.

Timmy kicks at the frozen metal pole with the heel of his boot, listening to the dead vibration.

It’s mind-boggling to think that this is what he’s agonizing over being away from.

Slush crunches underneath Timmy’s boots as he trods back around to the front of the bus and climbs its metal steps, swinging the door out to climb inside. Amber is in the driver’s seat, both legs swung over one armrest while she talks on the phone to her girlfriends.

She has eyes on him when he passes, but doesn’t comment on his appearance

Embarrassed, Timmy makes a beeline for his bag and then the bathroom to wash his face and change. Tonight cannot be over soon enough. His phone rings while he’s in there but he has absolutely no desire to answer it.

He hefts himself into his bunk, cinching his sweats around his waist and turning over onto his side. Armie’s cruel laugh haunts him when he closes his eyes. He shakes his head against it but it’s useless, defeat and upset clinging to him like the cold.

He can’t go to bed like this. He’s still keyed up. He needs a distraction.

Blinded by his phone screen before he levers down the brightness, Timmy swipes the back of his hand over his nose, his navy hoodie absorbing any residual snot and tears. He stares with bloodshot eyes.

The worst part of all of this isn’t that Armie’s scaring him or that he’s being a piece of shit. It’s that Timmy really fucking wants to be wherever he is. It’s been gnawing at him all day and he’d been hoping that their end-of-day phonecall might have been able to doctor his mood like it had last night. Armie would have made him laugh and they would have shot the shit for a few minutes and after hearing his teased out I love you before hanging up, Timmy would have been able to sleep.

But as it turned out, Armie was too busy for him tonight. He chose the company of strangers and getting high over Timmy.

It would only have taken ten minutes of his night…

Who are these people anyway?  
Frustrated, sad, and crushingly lonely, Timmy turns onto his stomach and fiddles through the apps on his phone. None of the games he has installed hold his attention anymore. They’re either too easy or too hard or have too many ads.

It sounds like Dakota is busy and he doesn’t want to startle Saoirse...

As the bus grows more quiet, Timmy’s eyes blink in the time -- 4:00 A.M. -- and he uses his fingers to count what time that might be in other timezones, like the UK for example. He can never remember how many hours ahead they are and when he factors in which timezone he’s cruising through on any given day, the math is a nightmare.

Timmy flirts with his Messages icon, thumb hovering over the icon. He bites his lip, bracing as he pulls up his sparse text thread with Matty.

Their last conversation stares up at him accusingly. Image-heavy. It’s mostly memes or article links. He glances over the most recent timestamp from a few days ago when Matty sent him a link about lab-grown steak that Timmy read but forgot to say so.

Reason tells him to put his phone down and go to sleep, but he’s tried that. His thoughts are too loud to be alone with right now. He’s overwhelmed by anxiety and frustration, convinced that he’s going to burst if he doesn’t try to release some of the pressure.

His fingers pull the trigger while his mind dallies with the pros and cons. Deja-fucking-vu.

Timmy:  
touring is really hard :(

Swarmed instantly by guilt, he throws his phone down and face plants into his pillow. If he wasn’t on the bus tonight he’d scream into the fluff but the touring keyboardist is asleep across the aisle.

Timmy tries not to count the minutes that go by after he reaches out. He picks up his phone every few seconds, checking the sound button to make sure it’s switched on, then off, setting it to vibrate when he realizes he doesn’t want it ringing and waking anyone up.

He wonders what Armie is doing. If he’s feeling like Timmy is now that the adrenaline of the fight has waned or if he’s sufficiently numbed by the cocaine he was cutting.

The bathroom door bangs closed next to Timmy’s head.

Five minutes goes by and he rolls over to his back, restless. He bargains with himself: _If Matty doesn’t text back in one minute, I’ll go to sleep._

He starts to count to 60 but when he gets to 50 and there’s still no vibrating from his phone against his chest, he slows it down, injecting a luxurious M-I-S-S-I-S-S-I-P-P-I between each number.

51…….52…….53…….

His phone rattles next to his cheek and he exhales loudly, anticipation ripping through him. Was it Matty, or Armie? He can’t decide who he’s hoping for.

The preview of a message flashes over his phone screen, then another. Fuck.

Matty:  
Timothée boy!

Matty:  
Soz I was asleep. What’s happening?

Timmy audibly sighs once more, his fingers flying to answer Matty before he thinks to play it cool.

Timmy:  
just got into a huge fight with armie. were so bad at staying connected when were apart

When Matty doesn’t reply right away, Timmy worries that maybe he should have been vague, not that Matty would ever hold Armie against him. But the regret that Timmy didn’t edit himself burns away regardless when Matty responds after another thirty seconds. He’s probably still waking up. Timmy can imagine his wild bedhead and sleepy smile.

Matty:  
I don’t know what to tell you really. Distance is shit but it’s part of the gig.

Timmy:  
how do you do it?

Matty:  
Poorly lol.

Matty:  
I think it’s just about being honest with your feelings.

Timmy chuckles at that. His feelings have been all over the place lately and, probably, he’s been_ too _honest about them, making mountains out of molehills every time he feels ignored or second best. Though, is it really his fault? Armie has had an active role in most of his fits, in one way or another.

Timmy realizes that he’s broken the flow of conversation and starts typing again.

Timmy:  
someone needs to invent the teleporter

Matty:  
Probably already have only the patent was bought and buried to keep society from further globalization.

Timmy laughs. It’s such a Matty answer. He types something out but hesitates before starting over. It would be unfair to ask Matty if he’d come visit should the technology exist.

Timmy:  
lol isnt it a little early over there for conspiracy theories

Matty:  
No such thing. Speaking of, you must be knackered. What time is it? How’s the tour?

Timmy:  
sleep is for the weak ! tour is good :) amber is the best

Matty:  
She is, isn’t she?

Matty:  
She’s keen on you too.

Timmy warms at the thought that Amber and Matty have been talking about him. He smiles to himself, trying to imagine what they might have said but too nervous to ask.

Timmy:  
must be a british thing lol

It’s a little bold, possibly suggestive, but Timmy tells himself he’s just being playful. But when he doesn’t see Matty’s text bubbles show up after a few seconds, he takes it a step further, craving validation that Armie refused him earlier.

Timmy:  
do you miss me? :p

Matty:  
Don’t be thick. You know I do.

The angry scrapes from his blowout with Armie slowly begin to fade, to feel far away. Timmy’s eyelids start to feel heavy. They chat for a few more minutes, Matty sending over a picture of a vintage t-shirt on a hanger that he’s going to wear today to move the conversation towards safer waters. It’s moth-eaten and faded, but Timmy remembers him in something just like it when they met up for coffee for the first time. It’s a soft memory, a calming one. It eases him into his pillow.

Timmy looks at his phone and sees that five minutes have passed in one blink.

Timmy:  
i better go. im falling asleep. thx for talking me down from the ledge

Matty:  
Anytime.

Matty:  
Chin up, T. It’ll all sort itself out. xx

Timmy:  
If you say so. goodnight/morning

He closes the app and lets out a long sigh, twisting his spine. His phone background is an image of Armie flipping him off. It feels appropriate. He turns it face down.

A pang of sadness like a gong being struck ripples from the middle of his chest.

_I’m allowed to talk to Matty_, he thinks defiantly, remembering the way Armie spoke to him in front of his friends, like he couldn’t be bothered that Timmy was upset. Like it didn’t matter, like _he_ didn’t matter.

Stupid jerkoff.

Timmy senses his tenuous calm beginning to flounder, so he frantically clamps his eyes shut and forces his mind blank before he can dredge up all of the freshly buried angst that Matty helped him cover.

-

He is still pissed the next day, but not in a way that yanks his mood around on a short leash. He is still hungry for breakfast in the morning, still laughs when Amber informs him that they’re going to have a cornhole tournament with the whole crew later, still helps different people puzzle out team names and rosters. Tour life moves on, while his status with Armie remains on pause.

The uncommonly temperate weather is a welcome change of pace, and the inspiration for their game. No one actually likes Texas, but at least they can feel the Sun’s warmth today.

They roll out a big green rug and the bus’s awning to create a makeshift field area, complete with a spectator’s lane and two tables for snacks. The manager, Mark, finds an old boombox in one of the storage compartments on the bus and tunes it to the local Christmas station. The reception is a little fuzzy, but it sets the mood.

Timmy plays in a few rounds at the start of the tournament but once it’s revealed just how uncoordinated he is, Amber sweetly trades him in for another teammate. She rubs his arm, letting him know that, “You’re adorable but I do want to actually win a match, mate.” He laughs it off, holding up his hands in good-natured defeat before sinking into a metal fold out chair on the sidelines. Sports that depend on hand-eye coordination have never been his forte.

As the game wears on, his indifference towards the fight with Armie falters. He does his best to remain involved, but everything begins to feels oddly strained. He laughs too hard at some jokes, or not enough at others. The beer tastes like water. Even his vape pen that pokes out from the corner of his pocket is unappealing.

Timmy becomes mentally preoccupied, drifting away from the commotion of cheers and jibes and christmas music.

The only time he stops thinking about Armie, and where he was last night (and who he was with and what he was doing) is when Amber breaks into a story about Matty that he’s never heard before.

“So, wankers thought I was Oz’ing it behind the curtain, writing songs for the 1975 -- which is bullshit, mind you. Matty suggested that we dress as one another for the Halloween show and swap places during one of the songs in each other’s set to mug them off. It was amazing..”

Everyone stops what they’re doing to look at the photo Amber’s pulled up on her phone, her and Matty in swapped attire, rocking wigs and each other’s guitars. It’s cute, Timmy thinks, and he tells her so as she leans over to show him another. Just then, his own phone lights up.

“Ooh, who’s thaaaat?” Amber trills, peeking over his shoulder at the caller ID on his phone.

Timmy laughs. “My sister. Give me just a second.” He steps away from the rambunctious game and around to the other side of the bus, finding a wedge of shade to stand in. His thumb swipes the screen to answer. “What up?”

Pauline sounds funny on the other end of the line, like she has a stuffy nose. Her, “hey,” is lackluster.

“Do you have a cold? I told you, that guy you’ve been seeing looks like he --”

“No,” she replies, cutting him off. “Timmy, listen.”

Automatically, he puts a few more paces between himself and the rest of the crew, hiking towards a barren lay of sidewalk. His awareness is pricked and sharpens. There is dead silence in the background on her end. “Are you okay?” It feels like his voice echoes, even though it doesn’t.

She takes a breath that shakes Timmy, rattling him out of his calm. “Yeah, I’m--it’s Nana.”

Timmy sits down, not at the curb or against a wall, just drops to the cement in the middle of the sidewalk. He maxes out the volume on his phone and presses the receiver to his ear. He can hardly hear over the pounding of his heart against his chest plate. “Did something happen?”

Someone whoops from the other side of the bus. It sounds like Han. Timmy can’t see what’s happening, and he doesn’t care. His eyes blur.

When Pauline’s voice comes through again, it wavers, more air than sound. “Timmy,” she breathes, “she’s gone. I mean--dead.”

Timmy’s heart sinks like a stone, plummeting through the mouth of his ribcage. He anchors a hand out against the cement and curls in on himself. “What do you--how? Are you sure?”

“Yeah.” She heaves out a wet sigh. “Mom wanted to tell you but I thought it should be me. Her home care nurse found her this afternoon. She was unresponsive. The coroner thought it was probably a stroke.”

A ringing numbness envelops Timmy. He doesn’t cry or yell. He is frozen with disbelief. “I was going to call her on Tuesday. We always talk on Tuesdays.” Suddenly he can’t recall if he remembered to call last week. He must have, right?

Pauline starts crying in earnest then, saying, “I’m so sorry, Timmy,” and babbling on about the details, how it probably happened in her sleep so that’s good. She tells him that Mom is doing okay, or as okay as anyone can expect anyway. They don’t want to ruin his assignment but want him to come home, need him to. He agrees.

Timmy looks around, the sun glaring against the concrete and the glossy side of the tour bus. “Oh my god,” he exhales, buying himself time to think but his brain won’t fire up. “Is there going to be a funeral?”

“Yeah, we think the 26th.”

“Fuck. Happy early birthday to me.”

“Right,” Pauline sighs wryly, “and a Merry Christmas to all.”

They talk for a little while longer, Timmy failing at consoling Pauline. He ends up just listening to her cry in his ear while he picks at the frayed borders of the holes in his jeans, occasionally picking off the few tears he can muster with the edge of his thumb.

She will text him later but wants to know as soon as he’s booked a flight home, instructs Timmy to send her a screenshot of his ticket once he’s bought it so that arrangements to pick him up can be made amidst everything else that needs to get done.

After trading mournful I love you’s, they hang up.

He looks around, processing, and walks back over to the crew playing cornhole in the parking lot. Amber notices him immediately, pausing with a glass bottle of Izze held to her lips. She lowers it, coming closer. “Everything alright?”

Timmy’s eyebrows knit together and he shakes his head, looking down, bewildered. He wets his lips. “No, uh. My nana died.”

It’s a statement said matter-of-factly and though Timmy doesn’t feel it, it seems to ripple through those around him. People drop their bean bags, game forgotten, and close in around him to offer condolences and pull him into hugs.

Timmy appreciates their sympathy, thanking everyone, but when he’s out of their arms, he doesn’t feel any different. “I think I’m going to go for a walk.”

They tell him to take his time, and he goes, phone held loosely in one hand.

He walks until the streets liven up, people nipping out of their offices for lunch and young moms trailing children ambling from store to store. Display windows have been decorated Christmas, holiday greetings written across the glass or mistletoe hanging for two mannequins to kiss. Tinsel and garland and empty boxes dressed up like presents.

It’s too nice of a day for such bad news. The clear sky mocks him as he trudges underneath it. How dare the weather encourage afternoon strolls and birds into song when his grandmother just fucking disappeared from this place? He wishes he was freezing, and wet, soaked by a winter storm, wants the sky to bruise over with malevolent rainclouds, needs the sky outside to match how his family feels right now.

Timmy walks with no direction. He has no idea what he’s supposed to do, not just emotionally but professionally too. What is the protocol for ditching a tour he signed a contract for? The terms were loose, and he’s sure a family member dying would allow him to leave for home but he’s afraid that this early exit might be burning a bridge, painting himself in an undependable light with the label if he bails so close to the end. He feels like an asshole for even worrying about himself right now.

The only thing that truly matters is the fact that his family is hurt and his Nana is dead. Fuck tour. Fuck everything.

Plodding blindly down the sidewalk, he thinks about his Nana, trying to remember stories she’d told him when he was on his phone and only half-listening. He’ll never get a chance to know them now. She always used to joke that he had his head in the clouds, using their silver linings as mirrors for Timmy to look at himself in. It was her sweet way of reminding him that he could be selfish.

His grief creeps in, a vignette at the edges of his mind that slowly eats up the picture of the city block he’s on.

No more of her gingerbread cookies or card games, or birthday cards with indecipherable script and vehement _I Love You_s written at the very bottom before she’s out of space.

Timmy feels a tear rolling down his cheek before he realizes that he’s crying, but once the dam has leaked, it breaks away altogether. Another half a block and he is constantly mopping at his face with the inside of his striped sweater, peering warily at those who pass him by, worried that he’s going to frighten them.

He dips into an alleyway between a laundromat and a chinese restaurant, needing to put himself back together. Timmy backs up into a brick wall and allows his piercing sadness to ruin him for a minute or two, covering his face, wracked with sobs.

The memories of staying home sick from school overwhelm him, how he’d lie on the couch and watch endless episodes of soap operas with his Nana. She’d lay his head over her lap, scratching his scalp with her perfectly manicured red nails. He’d never have that again.

He tries to soothe himself by closing his eyes and dragging his fingers through his hair, thinking about their old green sofa that had stuffing gurgling out from one corner. His chin falls in defeat; scratching his own head isn’t the same. He hasn’t got the nails for it.

Once he’s caught his breath again, Timmy digs out his phone, his fingers leaving smears of wetness over the screen. He has to dry them off before he can type anything.

Armie’s name is at the top of his missed calls list. The way their talk ended doesn’t register as he’s pressing it to dial him. It’s almost one o’clock in Los Angeles. He’s at work and probably won’t answer.

Timmy won’t leave him a voicemail. It will scare him. He will just call back later.

But his train of thought stops there because Armie does pick up, his “hello,” almost clinical in its delivery. He hasn’t forgotten last night’s argument.

Timmy considers his words, something he knows he’s been careless of so often these days. His face stumbles through an array of emotions, his throat tight because Armie’s voice, even pinched with irritation, is the most comforting sound.

“Timmy?” Armie’s voice cuts through his whirlwind of thoughts and brings him back to the present. Timmy swallows and Armie must sense something because his next breath is a soft, “Tim…” that he cuts off.

“My Nana is dead.”

“Fuck.”

Timmy lets loose a sob. “She’s just, _gone_,” he mutters into the phone, his voice sounding as foreign as the news he’s spreading, the sound broken up between the rush of cars driving past on the street nearby, gravel crunching between every shaky inhale. He repeats himself, unsure if Armie has said anything because he can’t even hear his own train of thought through the sound of blood swarming his ears. “Armie-”

“I’m here,” Armie’s voice is a soft, insistent push towards clarity. “I’m right here.” Timmy listens to Armie take a deep breath and tries to follow his lead, feeling like he just might be okay until Armie says, “I’m so fucking sorry. _Christ_\--where are you, are you okay?”

Timmy feels the rubber bands that had been holding him together snap all over again and he sobs. Armie beats himself up on the other end. “Shit, of course you’re not okay. Hey, Timmy, baby —”

“Don’t fucking call me that right now!” Timmy bawls, swiping his hand furiously over his mouth and nose, his sleeves overstretched and damp. He feels soppy and gross. “I don't want you to be nice to me right now. I don’t want to be your _baby_ or hear that you’re sorry or fucking, anything, because you’re not here. You can’t hug me, or kiss me, or tell me it’ll be okay because it’s not. You’re there.” Timmy stutters an inhale. “And I’m here.”

And his Nana is nowhere.

Silence swells between them as Timmy works to sort himself out.

He looks at his phone, thinking that maybe the call has disconnected because Armie has yet to say anything since his outburst. Timmy is ready to start yelling again when he finally speaks, his voice calm but serious.

“I’ll come to you, then.”

“What?” Timmy isn’t sure what he means. “I have to go home.”

“I’ll go with you.”

“To New York?” Timmy’s heart feels confused, sad but trembling with anticipation. “You have work.”

“I’ll quit.”

“Armie, you can’t.” He starts to panic, thinking about the repercussions of Armie quitting his job, scared that he’s excited by the idea but worried too that Armie might resent him for it. “We can’t both be jobless when I get back. What if --”

“Timmy. I don’t care what you think, I’m coming to New York. I’m coming to you.”

“Don’t yell at me,” Timmy snaps back automatically but the truth is that Armie’s conviction thrills him.

He starts to shake, his chest heaving and his breath flighty. If Armie comes to New York, they’ll get to spend Christmas together, and his birthday. He knows it’s so fucking selfish but the thought of going through any of this next week without him to hold on to feels impossible.

Timmy punches out and pulls in a few long, full lungfuls of air, willing his nerves to settle by a few degrees. “Are you sure?” he whispers, already tearing up his mental countdown of the days until they’re together again.

“Of course,” Armie answers, “I’m already googling flights from my desk at work. JFK or Laguardia?”

“JFK,” Timmy exhales, absolutely buzzing. Between this surprise reunion and his searing grief, he’s a mess. A mess that needs to talk about his contract, and call his parents. He should get off the phone.

“About yesterday--” Armie starts, but there isn’t time for it.

“It’s fine,” Timmy rushes out, trampling over his assumed apology. They’re going to have plenty of time to hash things out face to face. Armie is going to look so good in the snow. “I’ll see you soon?”

Armie’s resounding, “yes,” brokers no arguing. “Tonight, fuck. I love you.”

“I love _you_,” Timmy stresses, borderline manic. “We’ll text the details. Thank you for this.” The last bit is uttered with real sincerity. Again, only Armie is capable of rescuing him from one of these spirals. He really is like medicine.

“Ok, bye. I need to go drop the mic with my boss. Jack’s eyes are the size of fucking watermelons right now.”

Timmy pops out a laugh and pushes away from the wall to leave through the mouth of the alley and make his way back to the bus. “K, gogogo. Bye.”

His heartache floods in again once they’re off the phone but he knows now that it isn’t going to be able to drown him.

Somehow he’s both going home, and having home come to him.


	4. nana

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thanks for being patient while we worked on this fucking beast of a chapter ! uncertain why we always have holiday themed chapters during the wrong months, but well, fuck it. you're all amazing and we adore you.
> 
> \- oyb & cpx

  
The drive home from quitting his job should feel surreal--it’s something he’s been dreaming of since the day he started, would have long ago if it weren’t for Jack. Right now though, Armie is wholly preoccupied with the unshakable knowledge that Timmy is _hurting_ and the need to reach him.

He slices through cars on the freeway, speeding down an off ramp when things start jamming up and weaving across the city in strict accordance with Google Maps. He’s really wishing that he hadn’t gotten so fucked up last night, still in the middle of his comedown with no time allotted to deal with it. Maybe that’s just what he gets though, for fucking up in the first place.

He swings his Altima halfway in the parking space next to his but doesn’t bother straightening out. There isn’t time. Fuck ‘em.

The door to his apartment blasts backwards, its doorknob leaving a shallow, horseshoe-shaped dent in the wall. Fuck that, too.

His nerves are boiling. He staggers in place for a moment, willing his body to catch up with his brain, but only for a moment. Then he’s tearing towards his room.

-

What Armie does before leaving for the airport can scarcely be called packing. He fishes an old jansport backpack out of his closet and proceeds to dump everything from his clean laundry basket inside, not bothering to take inventory of any kind before zipping up and ripping his phone charger from the wall.

One shamefully wrapped present fits into the water bottle pocket of his backpack while the other sits, abandoned, against the wall. It’ll have to wait until Timmy is back home; that notion hardening into a reality spurs him to move even quicker.

There was only one seat left on a flight that leaves in two hours; Armie had booked it from work before walking out with his formal resignation scrawled over a post-it note. He’ll arrive in New York just after midnight.

Jack had insisted on leaving early to escort him to the airport, but Armie wouldn’t be able to suffer his concerned eyebrows and owlish stare. He’s grateful for the support, but this isn’t a romantic comedy and he doesn’t need it to feel like a bigger deal than it is. It’s destabilizing enough to realize that he’ll be on the other side of the country in a matter of hours without having to do the mad dash with a witnesses present.

In his lyft on the way to LAX, Armie realizes that he forgot to hit up the bathroom before ordering his ride. No toothbrush. No deodorant. He’ll have to share with Timmy or swing by a CVS once he lands. His chest tightens.

_Timmy._

His voice is conjured from their phone call earlier today, haunting Armie--he can’t help replaying the sound of it, so fucking broken. All he wants to do is smooth it into calm but Armie never has been good at holding people together.

When Dakota had her heart broken by the captain of the lacrosse team their senior year, Armie didn’t know how to stop her crying. He did, however, run into Matthew Hitt after practice one day and politely remind him why cheating on Dakota was bad for his health.

A twisted image of Armie laying into Timmy’s grandmother’s corpse jumps to mind. No, unfortunately, in this scenario there is no one to pummel, and that’s about where Armie’s skill set ends when it comes to dealing with other people’s pain.

Hunched in the backseat while the car crawls down the 405, he sends Timmy a text.

Armie:  
On my way to the airport now.

Timmy’s reply is instant.

Timmy:  
fuck i love you so much

Timmy:  
youre the best

-

LAX smells fucking terrible. There is no comparison to be made, no way to accurately communicate exactly what that smell is like if you’ve never been unlucky enough to experience it. It’s just _terrible_.

Armie’s face is stuck in a permanent scowl from the moment he walks in. The airport is jam-packed with people who amble around aimlessly with their giant, wheeled suitcases, eyes roving from screen to screen as they pass by to check their flight status. Half of the departures are blinking Delayed, with a few sprinkles of Cancelled. Blessedly, Armie’s flight still reads On Time.

The line for the security checkpoint is comical, pop-up partitions snaking throughout the lower level. He gets it; it’s the 22nd of December--most everyone here is in the same boat as him, on their way to the people they love. But that knowledge doesn’t do anything for his impatience. His stomach is in knots. He wants to bowl over the line of people in front of him and hijack a plane.

Everything is taking too long. The line and the ID check and the x-ray machine are bullshit obstacles keeping him here when what he needs is to reach Timmy.

-

84 years later, Armie takes a seat at his gate to do another round of waiting. An old woman in the aisle across from him stares openly, as does the little kid with snot smeared over his face who’s pulling on her pant leg. Armie forces out a sigh and pulls his headphones back on, turning the volume up with his phone. The Dead Kennedys rage against his ears and he checks the messages he’d received while moving through security, anything to coax time into moving along.

Dakota left him a voice note. She talked with Timmy and with Jack, apparently. She tells him that he’s out of his mind for pulling this shit with his job, calls him a lunatic and, laughing, a romantic. He sends back the yellow middle finger emoji. They’ll talk when he lands, or tomorrow--she always assumes that every plane is doomed to crash so if she calls later and he doesn’t answer, she’ll send out the national guard to recover his charred remains.

The person sitting next to him gets up then, her empty red Starbucks cup rolling into his sneaker, oozing sticky brown remnants. Armie kicks it and it goes spinning, and then he looks up.

People are shuffling into lines next to the podium. A man is holding the speaker and booming instructions. Boarding has begun.

-

“Yeah, no. That’s as far as I can move it.”

Direct flights from LAX to JFK should be reserved for sex offenders and Republican lawmakers--it is a truly heinous experience. Of course, the only seat available with zero notice was a middle, which he spills out of; planes weren’t built for people Armie’s height. His kneecaps are crammed against his tray table and his elbows touch the strangers to either side of him unless he rolls his shoulders in and holds his hands between his legs like a kid who has to pee.

Complimentary fiber chips and Diet Coke don’t take out any of the sting. The woman on his left is reading a Danielle Steel book _out loud_ to herself while the man on his right snores loudly, his head tilted Armie’s way. A string of drool is going to splash onto his leather jacket at the mere suggestion of turbulence.

All three flight attendants are wearing jingle bells and singing their safety demonstration while the overhead vent spouts tinny, recycled air.

Armie closes his eyes and makes a conscious effort to chill out. He breathes slowly and thinks about Timmy to avoid ending up as a viral video featuring American Airlines. He brushes his mind against about the most specific, mundane details. Like the way Timmy’s shoelaces constantly end up undone because he always halfasses tying them, or how sloppily he brushes his teeth, leaving behind white crust in the corners of his mouth, or how his fingers will subconsciously tap out the melodies of songs he has stuck in his head.

It’s portable Hell but once this metal shitbird lands, he and Timmy are going to be in the same place again. It will all go back to feeling real.

-

When the plane gets low enough for Armie’s data to start working again, his phone that he hadn’t set to airplane mode populates with a few texts. The only one he clicks on is Timmy’s.

Timmy:  
fuuuck

Timmy:  
i forgot to say fly safe

Timmy:  
cant wait to lick your face

Timmy:  
im gonna wait for you at baggage claim

The ten minutes between them arriving at the gate and people getting their shit together enough to deplane is excruciating. Armie remains seated until it’s his row’s turn to go, even though he has likely been permanently disfigured by keeping his limbs contained for so long. Maybe he can sue, or at the very least, get a comped visit to a chiropractor.

Once he is freed from his basic economy prison and inside JFK, Armie has a second to take stock and realizes that, outside of being incredibly sore, he’s feeling a lot of other things.

Excited. Nervous. Guilty--god, he was such an asshole last night.

The cocktail of apprehension is making his stomach hurt, unless that’s the fiber chips.

Unsure of where the hell he’s meant to be going, he takes to just following the schools of people swimming downstream. The walkways are long and full, dotted with Santa hats and crying babies. A man seated in front of one of the restaurants is playing Frosty the Snowman on a massive, white piano. Looking back, Armie checks for the present he’d stuffed into his backpack’s side pocket. It’s still there.

Another five minutes of shuffling with the crowds, his body starting to sweat from anticipation and speed walking, the space finally opens up into a wide area clearly labelled baggage claim in bold font.

Armie spots Timmy immediately, waiting in front of a white column with a full view of the escalators where passengers are descending. His heart slingshots into his throat and tumbles back down his ribcage when their eyes connect. It’s like seeing a mirage in the middle of a desert, only Timmy is blood and bone. He’s _real._

The stretch of time they’ve spent apart just falls away. Armie can’t remember what it felt like to miss Timmy, or how lonely he’d been, how much they’d fought. It all recedes into the past in an instant, the present pushing back on it, taking over.

A huge smile consumes Timmy’s face. He’s all gums and teeth and tiny crinkles around his eyes. It’s gorgeous. Armie doesn’t know when Timmy stole his green flannel from him, but he’s wearing it now, stuffed under a blue puffy jacket.

He begins vibrating in place as Armie approaches, but winds up bolting forward in a rush of color before he’s made it all the way across the speckled tile. Armie only has enough time to drop his backpack and brace himself for impact before Timmy is colliding with him at full speed, knocking the air from his lungs while long arms swing around his neck and bind them together.

Dark curls smush against the side of his cheek and Armie instinctively reaches to cradle the back of Timmy’s head, turning his face into the onslaught and taking a deep breath. He smells like a different kind of shampoo, but still overwhelmingly like Timmy -- like Armie’s boyfriend who he lets drive him up the fucking wall.

Armie nuzzles into his hair and lightly bites the shell of his ear, tells him, “holy shit, I’ve missed you,” in a voice that’s just for him.

Timmy heaves a sigh against Armie’s chest, squeezing tight. “Yeah, me too.” Then, after another fruitless moment of attempting to compress into one being, he pulls away. “What’s your suitcase look like?” His eyes are drawn to the TVs dictating which flight will be on which carousel.

Armie doesn’t answer right away, busy staring at Timmy now that he is more than a giddy blur of movement.

FaceTime is bullshit, he decides. It doesn’t come anywhere close to capturing Timmy’s face. It cheapens every feature, criminally reducing them to standard definition. Seeing him again, in real life, reminds him of how this all started.

A stupidly beautiful kid who didn’t have the manners to knock.

Present Timmy--still stupid, still beautiful--is staring in wait of an answer. His smile turns crooked and his eyes jump wide, and Armie remembers himself. “I didn’t pack one,” he says, “I didn’t have time if I was going to make the first flight out. I wanted to just, you know, get to you as soon as I could.”

It’s true and seems like a good thing to say but causes Timmy to sprout sudden tears and reach forward to swat at Armie for making him sappy. Armie pulls at one of the missing buttons towards the top of the green flannel Timmy is wearing -- yeah, it’s definitely his. Timmy bites his lip then grabs onto the flap of Armie’s jacket and pulls. “Come on then.”

Riding the wave of Timmy’s mercurial moods is difficult on their best days; Armie can’t imagine what the shuffle will be like now that he’s actively grieving too. Steeling for the tsunami that’s sure to come, he picks up his backpack and lays an arm over Timmy’s shoulder, peppering a chaste kiss against his crown. “Lead the way.”

Christmas reunions are happening all around them as they navigate towards the exit, jubilant greetings and hugging and laughter. Signs and balloons are raised towards the escalators. Names are being called. It’s the same chaos from LAX re-contextualized. And if they feel even half as thrilled as Armie now that he’s here with Timmy, well then alright, he abides by the madness.

Once they get outside, Timmy whirls with determination, eyes scanning the busy area. Armie assumes he’s searching out a ride but doesn’t really care to know for sure, would be happy to just stand here and freeze to death; it’d be a serious upgrade from spending another ten minutes on the plane.

The chilled air of the city is stale but sharp. Armie feels his face being pinched by the low temperature the second they’re outside the sliding doors. The sensation reminds him how easily affected by the cold Timmy is and he glances over, first to make sure that he’s bundled well enough but then simply to admire. His tinted lips, pink cheeks, and red-tipped nose are practically technicolor compared to their grainy Facetime calls. Armie has yet to acclimate.

A second later, Timmy pulls him by the wrist, unaware of Armie’s adoring gaze, and heads over to a taxi stand. Only when the line in front of them has been eaten away does he break away to order them a cab.

Armie takes the moment to shoot Dakota a text assuring her that he made it.

“What a cliché,” he quips about the choice in ride when Timmy returns, rolling his eyes, though his barb doesn’t land. He’s too transparent right now, unable to hide his smile whenever his eyes are on Timmy.

It’s fucked up. Timmy’s Nana is dead. There should be a somber air about tonight, but honestly he’s just so _happy_. Twenty four hours ago he was trying to drown the knowledge that Timmy wouldn’t be home for another week. Now they’ll be spending Christmas and his birthday together.

A little girl holding a stuffed reindeer in a loving chokehold looks back from the curb and waves at them. Timmy waves back and she giggles, falling behind her parents when they move to get into a car and she’s still looking at him.

So it’s a universal response then.

Timmy is undeniable, a suspicion confirmed.

Armie doesn’t know how he can tell which taxi is for them--they all look pretty much identical--but after a few minutes Timmy motions with his chin at one of them and they shuffle into the back seat before airport police can whistle at them for holding up traffic.

Armie pulls closed the door, effectively shutting out the noise and bitter cold. Now that they’re out of the public eye, he is overwhelmed with the urge to kiss Timmy senseless, but rational thought keeps him planted. First, they have some things to discuss. If it weren’t for his grandma dying, they may not have spoken at all today.

Timmy must be on the same train of thought because the first thing out of his mouth is, “can we talk about last night?”

They don’t need to. Armie already feels like a piece of shit for the way he’d acted. But he doesn’t want to cheat Timmy out of getting to yell at him by putting up his white flag so soon. Shifting his backpack between his long legs, he glances warily at the driver focused on the road ahead then tells him, “yeah I guess we should.”

Timmy inhales sharply, as if surprised by Armie’s response, then nods to himself, going silent for a few long moments. Armie is all too familiar with the way Timmy grips at his knees, fingers ringing out, face taught and eyebrows pulled so tight that they become one fuzzy line across his forehead. He is trying to organize the pressing jumble of his thoughts right now.

Timmy fights the same way he does everything else in life; all at once, overly passionate, fiercely and intensely, even when he’s wrong. He's not wrong, this time, however. Armie will deserve every name that Timmy wants to call him and the baseless threats he’ll try to use but — fuck, it doesn’t matter.

He’s grateful to be here to receive them in person.

But Timmy doesn’t molt into a rageful thing. He just sighs and, suddenly, Armie has his arms full of him.

He sniffles but, at first inspection, doesn’t seem to be crying--there is going to be a downpour of tears during his visit, Armie’s sure, but he will consider the trip a success if he can at least avoid being the cause of most.

“Did you, like, have fun without me?” Timmy asks, sounding like a child. It doesn’t help when he grumbles in frustration, his voice a muffled press of air against Armie’s chest. Timmy pulls back then, pushing his insane curls out of his face. They look even longer, somehow, a fountain of chocolate that almost spills onto his shoulders. “Shit. I just, _I missed you_. Every second and...it didn’t always feel like you missed me back.”

Armie wishes Timmy would just call him an asshole already so that they can move the conversation along. He’s ready for the kiss and make up part, not wanting to waste anymore precious time. Instead, it looks like they’re going to have to wade through all of Timmy’s complex emotions on the subject.

Timmy is allowed to be all over the place right now but Armie still can’t help saying, “That’s fucking dumb,” in response to his suggestion. To even pretend that he wasn’t just as tortured by the distance is absurd.

“Armie.” Timmy’s voice is a gentle bawl, a plea that needles him for resolution.

“I told you I missed you, all the time. Just because I wasn’t weeping on my Victorian fainting couch the entire time you were gone doesn’t mean—” Armie fishes for what to say. It’s unfair, because he knew Timmy was out having the time of his life on tour. So what was so outrageous about him, occasionally, having fun as well?

“Doesn’t mean what?” Timmy urges him through his hesitation. Their eyes lock in the dimness of the backseat, and Armie has the distinct feeling that the driver is probably eavesdropping on their heated whispering. Timmy’s eyelids are red-rimmed. His stare is glossy. It’s not hard to imagine whose side the cabbie is on.

“Doesn’t mean that I wouldn’t have rather been doing all that shit with you,” Armie says at last.

Timmy looks like he really might start crying but pushes the heels of both palms into his eyes and quells the urge with an aggressive inhale. Armie sighs relief, but mostly he just wants Timmy to know that he really fucking means it.

No amount of drinks with Jack, cocaine with old college friends, or even the late night band practices were up to par when Armie knew he couldn’t go back to Timmy’s at the end of the night.

When he thinks about it, it’s pretty fucked up, actually--how codependent they are. As soon as they decided to give dating a try, they’ve been totally locked into one another’s orbit. This need to be close has ballooned without their knowing, like a malignant tumor; what the fuck was he supposed to do about it now? The only viable option is to accept it and let it kill him.

There are worse ways to go.

“I know I’m a pain in the ass,” Timmy’s voice cuts across Armie’s thoughts. “I don’t want to fight. But maybe, just, I don’t know… be less shitty, next time we’re apart? Who even were those people?”

“Be less shitty...” Armie echoes with a dark laugh.

Timmy quirks an eyebrow, probably realizing how futile the request is. His smile wants Armie to figure it out anyway. “Yeah, and maybe like, fucking, wait till I’m home before you start doing all the fun drugs.”

“Are you trying to tell me there weren’t fun drugs on your tour bus?” Armie asks with a flat expression. They both know the answer to that.

The driver lays on his horn out of nowhere, riling up a few of the cabs in their vicinity. Armie looks towards the ruckus to see someone bolting across traffic with an open umbrella and no shirt on.

“It’s not the same,” Timmy asserts, but his eyes have wandered out the window.

Armie gets that, but what he says is, “whatever.”

The jaywalker with the umbrella is straddling the center divider and looking like he’s about to play Frogger with the other side of the street any second now. Unfortunately, they get too far away from it to see if he crosses successfully or splats.

Armie and Timmy talk about their fight for a little longer, both of them making perfunctory excuses for their respective pitfalls. Thankfully, their arguing eventually circles the drain and tapers into silence, both of them lacking the energy to really have at each other now that they’ve been reunited.

Armie wonders how far Timmy lives from JFK but time and distance on the east coast is a lot different than LA. He doesn’t even try to make sense of it. Instead, he draws a line down the cold window and sighs. “I’m going to freeze my balls off here, aren’t I?”

Timmy laugh is wild and sudden. He looks Armie over, picking at the thin sleeve of the black sweater he’s wearing underneath his jacket, and nods. “That’s all you brought? Then yeah, sorry.”

The slurry on the sidewalks glares at him as they roll by and Armie comes to terms with it--if nothing else, his life post-testicles will be simpler. “Cool.”

The linear blur of white Christmas lights is everywhere. Wrapped around poles and strung between buildings. Through the condensation on the window, Armie has to admit that they hold a certain charm.

In the car, Timmy’s other hand crawls over the fabric seat to scratch at the frayed threads along the outer seam of Armie’s jeans. He looks at it, then up, at Timmy.

“Thank you for coming,” Timmy says quietly, looking soft and subdued, years younger than he’s about to be; there is such a duality to him. You would never pin this Timmy as the type to take a bet over how many $1 Applebee’s long island iced teas he can drink, only to end up puking in the girl’s bathroom with a strange lady holding his hair. He still closes his eyes every time they drive by the location near his apartment.

“Of course, I’m sorry.”

“I just...I can’t believe she’s gone.”

Armie spreads his hand over Timmy’s, turning it over and lacing their fingers together properly. Timmy squeezes, sniffling.

“We’re almost there. Everyone will probably be asleep so we’ll be able to just head up to my room.”

“Okay,” Armie says, unable to bury his relief. He isn’t mentally prepared to meet Timmy’s family yet and selfishly, he wants as much time with Timmy to himself as possible.

What’s meant to be a thirty minute drive in New York City actually equates to nearly an hour in holiday traffic at one o’clock in the morning; it was probably even worse when Timmy landed earlier. LA traffic sucks, but at least people actually go the fuck home and are off the roads by 8:00 P.M.

But soon enough they’re sloshing up to a curb, the taxi double parking because of course there’s no spaces on the street. Timmy hands over crumpled bills, trying to count in a hurry, probably giving the cab driver an extra 50 bucks on top of tip because he's jumbled.

Armie doesn’t even get a chance to thank the driver because Timmy is doing it for them, a few times over, and it’s sweet if a bit excessive. Armie wants to ask him why he’s so weird but really it’s just one of the many things about him that Armie’s accepted he’ll never figure out.

“7th floor,” Timmy mutters, glancing up with a smile. It’s a big, brick building, typical NYC style -- whatever that means -- and Armie’s heart is suddenly hectic in his chest, picturing all the past versions of Timmy running up the steps that lead into it.

-

It’s quiet inside the lobby, just the burr of heaters and the rickety elevator that leads them to his parents’ floor. Anticipation has quieted Armie but Timmy keeps jostling his arm and giving him encouraging smiles until they’re finally at the door and inside the large apartment.

Everything smells like cinnamon and vanilla and a few other spices he can’t place. Like _home_, or what they’d melt down into wax and sell at Yankee Candle with that label.

Armie starts to look around the space, at the painted walls and framed art pieces, but Timmy silently points up the wooden staircase and so he follows, acutely aware of how loud his huge feet are on each step. Timmy dances soundlessly over the boards, years of familiarity guiding the way, while each of Armie’s footfalls makes the oiled wood protest in loud groans, announcing to the entire household that there is a stranger amongst them. He knows that Timmy wouldn’t want him to feel like an intruder, but it’s difficult, even when Timmy looks back over his shoulder with a gentle smile and reaches for his hand.

From the top of the stairs, Timmy’s room is obvious. The door is open straight ahead and somehow a sweater or maybe a blanket is already leaking out from around the frame. There are faded, peeling stickers decorated all over the painted wood. Armie blinks but hardly registers the eclectic mix of bands and musicians, a couple of sports teams. In the epicenter of it all is a New York license plate that reads _Timothée_ across one bar.

It’s obnoxious but more importantly, it’s Timmy.

They slink inside and when Armie eases the door closed behind him, Timmy lets out an explosive breath, turning around. “So,” he announces awkwardly, not bothering to switch on a light, “this is my, fucking, childhood bedroom or whatever.”

The tense air of the last few minutes snaps and Armie laughs, dropping his backpack off his shoulder and onto the foot of Timmy’s full-size bed. He makes a show of looking around, though in all honesty he’s too keyed up to process the details of what he’s seeing right now.

He does catch the poster of a shirtless Kid Cudi performing on first pass though. “Cudi, why am I not surprised?”

Timmy titters. “No judgment,” he whines. Instinctively, Armie wants to tease him, to make him blush and smile, or get all red-eared and defensive but Timmy’s eyes are pleading as if to say, please, not yet. Not now.

His eyelids grow heavy as he steps forward to clear away the space between them. The air feels like it crackles when they both realize: they’re finally alone.

Armie’s hand catches around Timmy’s upper arm and he helps him into an overdue kiss, feeling Timmy sink against him on contact. He is just as soft and sweet as Armie remembers, sighing when he realizes that the memories he’s been sustaining himself with during their time apart are utter bullshit when confronted with the real thing. How has he survived without this?

A minute or two passes, but they don’t make out. Their affection simply lingers, Timmy’s fist winding into the front of Armie’s jacket while Armie props up Timmy’s chin with the edge of his thumb. It’s a reality check. They’re both making peace.

“You’re really here,” Timmy marvels quietly, pulling away and rolling his lips inward, tasting their reunion. Armie only kisses him more firmly in response.

They sway in silence, Armie feeling an odd sense of ease layering over him. He’s never been close enough with anyone in his life for words to be rendered unnecessary but that’s exactly what this is; communication and comfort through touch and quiet. Not that he has any goddamn idea what to say anyway.

The moment feels incredibly tender until--

“You’re definitely the hottest person I’ve ever had in my bedroom.”

Armie chuckles. Fuck, he loves this kid. “Yeah? Bring a lot of hot people up to your room back in your youth, Chalamet?”

Timmy pushes his forehead into Armie’s collarbone before pulling back, a sheepish grin spread across his soft features. “What can I say,” he gloats, lifting his shoulders as if he’d had no choice in the matter. “I was popular in high school.”

Irrationally, Armie is bit by the desire to strangle every single unknown teenager that has ever stepped foot in here but it's cute how Timmy’s chest puffs with pride against his own. Armie leans in and bites a kiss into his left cheek. “Where am I sleeping, anyway?” He didn’t see where the guest room was on the way in.

Timmy just looks at him. “Huh? With me.”

“Your parents are okay with that?”

Timmy pops out a laugh. “I mean, you’re not going to get me pregnant.”

Their smiles are stretched thin in the darkness and Timmy ends up moving into his chest once more. He makes a soft, sleepy sound that brokers no argument. Armie wraps him in another hug and they wind up sprawled over Timmy’s messy blankets. His shoes -- damp and covered in salt from the sidewalk -- are hanging over the mattress. He kicks them off with a thud, then shifts to shirk off his jacket and cover them both up with the blanket underneath them. Armie’s feet hang out from under that too.

“You must be exhausted,” Armie offers in the dark once they’ve settled, turning to look at Timmy while he lies on his back. “You’ve had A Day.”

Timmy is staring upwards. He doesn’t respond right away. His leg bounces next to Armie’s, barefoot jangling restlessly under the blanket. Then his head turns, his expression passive. “I’m glad I didn’t die before I met you.”

Armie’s kneejerk, “shut up,” sounds more like _me too_ and he reaches to pull Timmy into his chest and out of his head.

He kisses Armie but it doesn’t build up steam. His hands remain curved around the thick column of Armie’s throat and after a minute or two, Armie ends up tucking his face into the curve of his neck, rolled onto his back so that Timmy can spoon him. Timmy’s too bogged down by grief right now, and they’re both just too tired. Tears leak down the corners of his eyes, death back into the forefront of Timmy’s thoughts.

Armie can’t land on something to say that would bring Timmy any solace so he just continues holding onto him, stroking the soft skin at the back of his neck, letting him soak the collar of his sweater while he cries himself, eventually, to sleep.

-

Sleep flirts with Armie all night, time zones fucking him up, but then again, so is everything else. Puffs of sleepy air riding out of Timmy’s mouth pacify his body, but his mind is still coming to terms with the whirlwind of the last 48 hours.

Everything about New York is so loud. All corners of Timmy’s room are making noise: the cars on the street, the neighbors above and adjacent, the old pipes clamoring like they might give out at any moment.

Somewhere between waking life and dreams, contradictions eat at Armie.

The window nearby radiates frosty air from outside, but the floor heater that’s whirring loudly is making him sweat. He feels stated and comfortable having Timmy pressed against him, but he’s still in his jeans and his legs are starting to ache from hanging off the mattress. He is happy to be with Timmy again, but hapless that it’s transpired under these circumstances.

The only concrete feeling he can get a clear hold of is the looming fear of meeting the Chalamets in the morning.

He doesn’t want to think about it, but it’s there, sitting heavy on his chest.

Timmy’s knee hikes itself up higher on his hip and reflexively, Armie grips his fingers into the warm bend of his joints to secure him.

Armie looks around in the dark. The room, from what he can see, is foretelling of the Timmy he currently had spread halfway on top of him. It looks like it might have been cleaned recently, but the signs of his Timmy are already strewn all over. A suitcase and duffel bag are wide open, clothes everywhere, pairs of shoes rolled across the carpeted floor, bags of film laid out on a desk near the window. An old blanket that looks like the shapes of The Simpsons family is draped over a ratty old computer chair.

There are Polaroids and photos that look like they were taken with cheap disposable cameras taped all over the walls. He reminds himself to look at all of them in the morning.

Armie hears a door shut somewhere down the hall and defensively closes his eyes, shutting out both past and present Timmy in an effort to leave this plane of existence for awhile.

Somehow, at some point, he falls asleep.

-

When Armie wakes the next morning, he is alone. His brain is still firmly planted in Pacific Time. Looking at his phone, he sees that it’s already almost eleven o’clock.

His first lucid thought is that Timmy is an asshole for not waking him when he got up.

Bringing the unfamiliar bedroom into focus, he listens for voices. There is noise coming from downstairs but Armie isn’t sure whether it’s Timmy's family or something playing on a television--he isn’t lucky enough for it to be the latter.

Dread wedging itself immediately beneath a rib, Armie gets up and smooths both palms over his wrinkled, slept-in jeans, tucking his morning wood down one pant leg and willing himself soft. Wouldn’t that be perfect? Meeting the in-laws with a boner.

What’s also fucked is he doesn’t even have a toothbrush and when he ventures out into the second-story hallway, all of the other doors are closed. He isn’t going to gamble on one hoping for the bathroom and accidentally end up in Timmy’s sister's bedroom.

The staircase looms menacingly.

_Why the fuck didn’t Timmy wake him up? _

He tests the first stair, and it creaks because of course it does. A second later, Timmy’s voice floats up from out of sight. “Armie?”

He grimaces, clenching his eyes shut. “Yeah,” he answers thinly, voice stuck in his throat. He clears it and tries again before giving up altogether and barreling down the stairs towards the sound.

The family photos that pass by on his right merit another viewing once he’s cleared this hurdle. He cranes his neck closer at one image but Timmy’s voice sounds again and when Armie turns, he’s appeared from around the corner.

Timmy makes a sound that resembles embarrassment but doesn’t move to stop Armie from looking back at the photo that caught his eye a moment ago. It’s Timmy’s senior portrait from high school. “This is mortifying.”

Armie agrees, but he doesn’t mean the photos. Although, the Supreme shirt Timmy’s posing in is pretty cringeworthy.

He can hear gentle laughter through the wall and his knees lock up. Fuck, that’s Timmy’s_ family. _

The concept of having to look Mr. and Mrs. Chalamet in the eyes is daunting considering he’s spent half of the past year snorting coke with and fucking their son--when he wasn't making him cry. Bloody noses and black eyes weren't exactly top tier traits for the perfect boyfriend.

“I was so awkward,” Timmy narrates, his own eyes flashing over a line of childhood photographs. Professional family pictures, first days of school, awards ceremonies. Armie lifts his eyebrows, ready to break the news to Timmy that not much has changed but he catches on and laughs, reaching out to swat Armie’s stomach with the back of his hand. “Shut up.” They share muffled laughter.

Armie looks at a photo of Timmy holding a soccer ball, one knee bent, cropped hair in all its bowlcut glory. “You were cute,” he teases, “what happened?” Timmy smacks him again, hard enough to make it hurt.

Armie wants to kiss him but his palms are sweaty and he’s realizing that every second that passes here is just delaying the inevitable.

“Come on. Pauline is going to kill me if I make her wait any longer,” Timmy tells him in a gentle tone, like Armie’s an animal that might get spooked and run off any minute now. He cups his palm around Armie’s and ushers him slowly down the rest of the hallway. “I had to hold her back from bursting into my room to wake you up.” He’s scrunching his nose like he might be joking, but Armie doesn’t bother to clarify. He’s going to sleep in his jeans for the rest of his time here.

-

Meeting the Chalamets ends up being the sweetest torture interrogation session.

Armie enters the dining room where they are all gathered, picturesque in their sweaters and socks, and in their smiles, and Timmy steps back so that he can be devoured. Nicole and Pauline want hugs--”oh my god, you’re so tall!”--and Marc goes in for a warm handshake.

Strangely enough, there is nothing assessing or disapproving in their eyes. Their gazes don’t even linger on his peeking tattoos or shaved head. Armie lets out a breath he didn’t realize he’d been holding, his nerves ratcheting down a notch, and takes a seat when asked to.

“Timmy tells us you’re in a band,” Marc says conversationally, sitting at the head of the table.

Moments later, Nicole is showering Armie in orange juice and french toast. He looks at Marc from under her arm. “Uh, yeah. That’s kind of how we met.” _Kind of._ Timmy sniffs a chuckle through his nose and Armie wonders if it’s reflexive from the memory. Armie doesn’t smile but his stomach twists in a happy way.

From there he fields questions like _”When did you realize you wanted to play music for a living?”_ interspersed with, _”Would you like more syrup?”_

Timmy is annoyingly quiet on the other side of the table, lounging back with his chin tilted, head resting against his sister’s shoulder. He seems happy to watch Armie navigate this interrogation all on his own, looking particularly proud of himself when Pauline, with no shame, asks who made the first move. The resemblance is undeniable. Her eyes are mischievous, like her smirk. What a handful Marc and Nicole must have had in raising this pair.

“He did,” Timmy answers proudly, eyes narrowed.

Armie scoffs, taking a beat to spear a hunk of toast and smear it through some syrup. “Debatable.”

Everyone laughs and it’s like being in one of Jack’s beloved sci-fi films, or an episode of Leave It To Beaver, so far removed from Armie’s own experience. Is this really how most families behave when they get together? At breakfast with the Hammers, you’d be lucky if you didn’t end up with a complex by the time you finished your toast.

“It was really sweet of you to come out here on such short notice,” Nicole tells him, mouth hidden by her coffee mug.

Armie feels pinned by her gaze. He nods, clearing his throat. “Yeah, of course. I’m so sorry by the way.”

Conversation takes on a markedly different tone then, quieter, more thoughtful. Wetter.

Timmy has tears rolling down his cheeks while Pauline relays a story about a childhood Christmas spent together: Timmy had begged to help Nana make Christmas breakfast--her famous boysenberry pancakes--but when it came time to serve everyone, Timmy had accidentally covered everyone’s cakes with corn syrup instead of maple, claiming that the labels on the bottle looked too similar. No one ate their breakfast that year, except for Nana.

When Armie looks around the table, he finds that Timmy isn’t the only one crying. Nicole, and even Marc, are silently upset as well.

He feels guilty for bringing them to this subject, but more so for even sitting here. He never met Timmy’s grandmother. He can’t share in their grief. He is a spectator, watching their sorrowful smiles and re-rimmed eyes that remind him so much of Timmy’s. If the shoe were on the other foot, he’s confident he wouldn’t react well.

“It’s hard,” Nicole says slowly after a long beat of silence, “we even have presents wrapped for her under the tree.”

Pauline reaches for her mom across the table, their hands linking together next to a bowl of fresh bananas. “We should drop them off for the local shelter.”

Timmy puts down his glass of juice. “That’s a good idea. I’m going to take Armie out exploring today, we can take them while we’re out.”

“That’s a good idea,” Marc says. Their mother agrees. “Now tell us more about your band, Armie. You’re going to be recording an album soon?”

“They’re amazing, dad,” Timmy effuses, turning to clock that Armie is blushing before continuing on.

The rest of breakfast devolves into contest to see which of them can embarrass the other more thoroughly. Armie talks about the time Timmy locked himself out of his car, three days in a row, leaving out the bit about him being high off his ass at the time. But then Timmy is making the outlandish claim that Armie didn’t even know how to operate a cell phone before Timmy came along. It’s not strictly accurate. He could make a fucking call.

It only gets more ridiculous from there. Even Pauline joins in with some Timmy dirt when it appears that Armie might spontaneously combust, he’s grown so red in the face.

Armie offers to do the dishes after and Timmy helps in the way that he usually does, by perching himself on a nearby countertop and barking his critique of Armie’s form. Armie lovingly whips him with a hand towel a few times, when he gets too mouthy.

Pauline and her parents are going to the movies this afternoon, so they’ve disappeared to get ready.

“You’re the worst,” Armie declares, spraying Timmy with the hose, making him squeak.

Timmy makes more sense now, having met his family. They are open and totally unguarded when it comes to talking about their emotions, the natural ease with which they confide in one another, no matter how controversial the topic is, or how tender. They had spent most of breakfast smiling and laughing, tactile and close, but they also weren’t afraid to cry freely when the discussion turned to Nana.

Armie doesn’t analyze but he knows one thing for sure, the idea of something similar happening at his family gatherings is laughable.

-

After all of the dishes have been put away, Armie waits on the edge of Timmy’s childhood bed, lacing the Doc Martens that Timmy had gifted him early after giving him hell and calling him a dumbass for wearing Vans to New York City in the winter.

Armie wonders if this pair of boots will outlast his old ones but crushes the thought that he and Timmy might not.

Timmy bounces around the room, burrowing into his clothes. The floor heater is purring aggressively in the corner, providing a false sense of warmth, and Armie tries again to dissuade Timmy from his task.

“I’ll be fine.”

Timmy doesn’t even look at him, just keeps rummaging through his closet and old dresser, which is also covered in stickers, a teenage habit that Timmy must not have outgrown, considering the dash of his car is covered as well. “You are literally bald, Armie. Shut up.” He pulls out from the shuffle of his closet and walks over a handful of brightly colored accessories. “Wear a hat, at least.”

Timmy drops the items on the bed and Armie doesn’t consider himself a fashionista but, “Who the hell owns a neon orange beanie? Seriously, Timmy. The fuck.”

As it turns out, the horrific neon orange beanie is the only one that doesn’t have tassels and fits his head. Timmy styles him by rolling it, twice.

Armie leans to look into the full-length mirror tacked to the back of Timmy’s door. He pales. “I look like a redneck fisherman.”

Timmy doesn’t even try to talk him down from that ledge, swallowed up by his closet again. This time, he squeezes out clutching a tiny backpack, no bigger than his head. It’s made of mustard-colored canvas and big, black straps.

“Are you fucking kidding me? What’s that for?”

Timmy makes like he’s on the catwalk, serving Armie angles, crouching into a rap squat. “Don’t be jealous,” he laughs. He drops his wallet and vape pen inside. New York Timmy is like Los Angeles Timmy, except with even shittier clothes than usual and a more obnoxious swagger. He’s too powerful here in his hometown.

Armie kind of wants to fuck him.

Instead, he picks up the grey knit scarf that’s been laid out for him on the bed and winds it around his neck. He gestures to the backpack after. “I couldn’t even fit my dick in that thing.”

“Wanna try?” Timmy beams, jumping over a laundry basket and unzipping it threateningly. Flashes of getting his parts stuck in his jeans’ zipper as a kid burst behind Armie’s eyes and he kicks out.

“Stop fucking around and let’s go.”

Timmy’s guffaw is unbridled. He stuffs a red stocking cap over his curls and makes for the door, Armie right behind him.

-

Their first stop is to drop off Nana’s gifts to a shelter. Armie keeps a close eye on Timmy but it seems like the act of doing something generous softens the misery of why it’s necessary. He looks okay, so Armie suggests lunch and they set out on the hunt.

The streets are alive with last minute shoppers, shopping bags swinging from nearly every wrist and elbow. It is snowing, but just, tiny flecks of white dancing through the air to melt on salted streets. Only ever other corner smells like piss and raw sewage.

Timmy lists at least ten places within a half mile radius that they “absolutely have to go to,” but can’t decide where to start. His eyes light up when he sees a cart on the end of the block.

Armie stops dead in his tracks, his boots sloshing against the grey-colored snow built up on the edge of the curb. “I don’t think I love you enough to eat New York City street meat.” He reluctantly pulls a cold, gloveless hand out of his pocket in order to wave his dissent. “Sorry.”

Timmy looks so put out about it that Armie can’t help but find it cute. “Don’t be a fucking pussy.” He reaches out and jerks Armie’s arm by the bend of his elbow. Armie doesn’t budge, instead yanking back and laughing when Timmy slides a little from the patchy ice on the sidewalk. “You eat street tacos _every time _we leave that shitty bar in NoHo.”

“That’s different.”

Timmy rolls his eyes. “How?”

Armie makes a face that should explain everything and Timmy takes to arguing with him until he inevitably gets his way. Armie would have given in, anyway, but now that Timmy’s promised to die a slow death by his side, getting food poisoning will almost be romantic.

-

They’re walking through Rockefeller Plaza because Timmy insists they need to see the tree, even if it’s daylight, when a girl takes notice of them and stops dead. “Timmy?!”

Automatically, Armie steps back, assuming that she must be an old friend of Timmy’s, though she does look young. Maybe someone he used to babysit--can you imagine?

But Timmy doesn't sound sure of her origin either. His, “yeah?” is questioning.

Mystery girl comes closer, three heavy bags hanging from her arm. She stops in front of them and gets out her phone, pulling something up before thrusting the screen out towards him. It’s his Instagram profile. “Hashtag-where’s-Timmy!” she raves.

Understanding hits them both at the same time. “Ohhh.” Timmy steps forward to give her a hug. “That’s so funny, how are you?”

She chitters about her day, and loving The Japanese House while Armie watches the entire world continuing to fall in love with Timmy from a distance. A light bulb goes on in the girl after a minute or two, brightening her expression. “This must be your boyfriend, hi!”

Armie salutes her from a pace or two behind Timmy, mouth still set in a line. It’s one thing meeting fans at shows and whatnot but this whole encounter is fucking nuts and only gets weirder when she sticks out her arm to him, asking him to get a picture of her and Timmy.

Armie had seen the hashtag during his few times logged in as the DLID Instagram, but up until now, he thought that it may have just been some elaborate inside joke between Timmy and that band, and Matty’s. Apparently not.

Timmy wraps an arm around her shoulders and puts on a grin. Armie feels a bit irritated that he gives her his big smile, the one with all the gums. You should have to work for that smile. But after a second or two to privately grouse, Armie does eventually lift the phone and take a few pictures. He hands it back numbly.

“Thanks,” she beams, “and do you mind if I get one of you guys together?”

He doesn’t know what to say. Timmy sways back over to him and she snaps a photo of Armie just standing there with Timmy squeezing him around the middle.

“What are the odds,” the girl gushes, gazing down at the pictures of her and Timmy after. When she looks up again, there’s a question on her face that Armie doesn’t think matches the one she asks. “Are you going to be at Amber’s show in Brooklyn this weekend?”

Timmy glances at Armie, and then at her. He searches himself, finding another smile, this one brittle. “Um, I’m not sure actually. Maybe…”

“I hope so.” She lets out a big burst of air. “Well thanks for talking to me for a minute. I better leave you to it.”

“Bye, have a good one,” Timmy tells her, giving a wave. Then she’s gone and Timmy is moving them down the sidewalk like nothing unusual just happened. “See, not all New Yorkers are assholes.”

Armie rolls his eyes, shaking off the entire bizarre encounter. “She was probably a tourist.”

-

An hour of the day is spent inside a smelly, kinda shady, Rent-A-Suit shop. Armie would be glad to accept a head injury that would erase the memories of Timmy doubled over in laughter on a moth-eaten couch while Armie tries on suit after suit, most of them probably procured from local grave robberies.

“It’s the holidays, dude. What do you expect,” the teenager working what has to be a family-owned shop explains when Armie gives him hell for bringing out a checkered suit. “Slim pickins.”

He ends up taking a faded black one, the pants and jacket way too short for his build, but it’s better than nothing. Armie apologizes to Timmy for being an inconsiderate asshole and not packing properly but Timmy just kisses him and tells him that having to wear that suit is punishment enough and that he wants pizza for dinner.

-

After they eat some greasy by-the-slice, Armie and Timmy meet up at a dive with some of Timmy’s friends from high school. They’re nice enough, but during the outing Armie can’t help wondering which of them, if any, have been back to Timmy’s bedroom. One girl, Maika, seems particularly interested in what Timmy’s been up to since he left New York.

Armie feels justified in his hatred of the entire world because it’s becoming clear that everyone is actually in love with Timmy. Who the fuck wouldn’t be? He starts a secret drinking game in Maika’s honor, taking a sip every time she touches Timmy, on the shoulder or the arm or the small of his back, double if she pets his hair. Half of his time at the bar is spent getting refills.

At some point, Timmy goes to the bathroom and returns with a soft pair of antlers in tow. He fastens them to Armie’s head before he can duck out of the way and accuse Timmy of giving him lice. “Where the fuck--”

“You weren’t festive enough,” is Timmy’s only explanation and Armie would press him on it, but then Timmy is draping himself over Armie like a cat finding a warm slice of sun. He’s wearing one of those light up necklaces with the old fashioned bulbs, the different colored lights dancing across his speckled features and rosy cheeks. Another treasure from the men’s bathroom.

“Another drink?” Armie asks, eyes cast down at him, unable to help his smile, despite himself.

Timmy smiles back, taking a pause to just squeeze Armie and stare. He lifts a hand and adjusts the angle of one antler before nodding sagely. “Yes.”

-

They stay until last call and stumble into a cab to get back home.

-

“I think you would have hated me in high school,” Timmy hums thoughtfully, straddling Armie as he slowly peels him out of the accessories he’d dressed him in earlier. Armie watches with relaxed, hooded eyes as Timmy folds over to press a few quiet kisses against his collarbone, just above the edges of his plain black t-shirt once he’s pulled off the sweater and a borrowed flannel. Timmy slides his hands up and over Armie’s chest, digging his fingers into the meat of his shoulders so that he can push Armie to lay flat on his back.

They never made it into bed, instead pooling the blankets on the floor and creating a sort of nest. There was just no way they were going to be able to fool around on a mattress that Armie could grip every side of at once.

“Probably,” Armie answers belatedly. Timmy sounds like he was a fuckboy in high school, taking into account all the stories that his old friend’s had shared tonight and the few teenage-era pictures he’s seen nailed to the walls. It’s a sobering reminder of how different they are, how unlikely, then and now. They’ll probably never fully sync up -- but Armie doesn’t need that. He likes their situation, even if it might not always make sense. Maybe it’s reckless, and Armie accepts he’s probably ruining his life pairing up with someone so different, but at least it’s Timmy who’s ruining it. “Did you really give that girl chlamydia,” Armie laughs remembering Timmy’s mortification, “_twice_?”

Timmy is busy shimming out of his own clothes, wiggling above him -- a hoodie, a sweater, and a long sleeve shirt fly off in different directions. His hair is rumpled and everywhere once he frees himself. “Dude, I knew you were going to give me shit about that.” He sounds embarrassed but not by much. Armie notes that it isn’t an answer, either. He lets him have it, instead focusing on the smooth expanse of skin that is Timmy on top of him.

“I’d let you give me chlamydia,” Armie coos sweetly, reaching out and sliding his hands up Timmy’s thighs, his thumbs meeting at the center. “Pop some antibiotics and just rail you. Worth it.” He’s trying to be funny, wants to see Timmy laugh and he does, but it’s a little pathetic. His face is all screwed up like he’s thinking too much. “Come on, I’m just fucking with you. I’m trying to be romantic.”

Timmy is staring down at Armie’s hands until he says that, then he glances up through his lashes and he looks -- something. Armie can’t place it. Sad, maybe. But it’s a sadness that he’s never seen up close.

A pipe somewhere in the house makes a sound and Armie remembers where he is, and why he’s here. _Of course Timmy is sad, you dickhead._

“Baby--” Armie starts but Timmy dives in, sealing his mouth with a bruising kiss to stop whatever insufficient sympathy he can give half-drunk like this. Armie gasps into his mouth, feeling their teeth clack and Timmy’s tongue swipe hot over the skin of his lips. His fingers dig deeper into the meat of Timmy’s thighs, their make out getting hot and heavy until Armie tastes salt and realizes that Timmy’s actively crying.

“This isn’t,” Timmy sniffs, trying to kiss, talk, and cry all at the same time. It’s very wet. “I didn’t want you to meet my family,” He sucks in saliva from his open mouth as he takes a breath, barreling on with his thought before Armie can take offense to that. Timmy kisses him again while clarifying, “Not like this, I mean. _Fuck._”

Armie strips them both down to bare skin at Timmy’s insistence. It’s really fucking weird continuing on with Timmy while he’s crying and moaning but Timmy doesn’t want to let him stop and Armie doesn’t have the resolve to turn him away.

“Fuck me, please,” Timmy begs gently, reaching between their bodies to fist Armie’s cock that’s been freed by Timmy’s urgent hand. “I need you inside of me. I need to feel you, here, with me.”

“I am here with you,” Armie insists, not to make a point but to assure Timmy that he’s there for him, with or without the sex. Timmy shakes his head, taking a painful bite out of the lobe of his ear and Armie can’t help it, he rolls his hips up into Timmy, unable to stifle the truth of really wanting to be inside him too. It’s been so long.

Armie’s body _misses_ him.

They’re both fully naked and trying not more than five minutes later.

The floor heater is buzzing at full blast right beside them on the floor, making their skin sticky and slick, along with exertion and friction. Timmy is so, so tense, his face all twisted up in discomfort. They don’t have lube and the last time they fucked without it, he was regrettably sore.

“I’m hurting you,” Armie remarks, feeling Timmy’s ass grip his fingers, his body resisting. All of his muscles are clenched and tight, unwilling to let Armie in. “I don’t want to hurt you.” His tongue licks over his top lip, it tastes like salt and Timmy’s mouth.

“It’ll —_ fuck_,” Timmy grunts, wiping the back of his hand over his forehead. His hips rotate and he takes a deep breath, trying to lower himself further onto Armie’s fingers. Saliva isn’t going to be enough, not tonight, not like this. “It’ll be fine, Armie. Just, don’t stop.”

Armie pulls his fingers out and spits one more time. Timmy’s eyes are closed where he towers above him, his body trembling, jaw wired shut. This isn’t how he imagined their reunion sex.

“It’s not going to work if you don’t rela—”

“It’ll fucking work, Armie!” Timmy’s eyes burst open and even though it’s dark, Armie senses the dilation in his pupils. “I’ll do it myself.” The sound of Timmy spitting in his hand would be hot as fuck if it didn’t feel so sad and desperate in this moment. “You’re being a bastard.”

Timmy lifts himself on his knees so that he has room to finger himself open but Armie grabs his wrist before his hand can disappear. “Timmy.” His voice is hard, serious. “Stop. It’s okay. What do you need?” Timmy tries to pull his arm away, but he just grips harder, pulling their bodies closer. “Don’t fight me. Just tell me.”

“I fucking did.” He sounds like he might cry or shout. Armie raises up so that their foreheads are touching.

He places Timmy’s curled fist against his leg. “Come here, lay down,” he instructs, and with only a little fussing, Timmy does as he’s told, putting their chests together. Armie’s hand fits between them to stroke Timmy’s cock, lining it up with his own after a few pumps so he can get his fingers around the both of them. God, that feels nice. After so much fucking build up and the blue balls he had from laying awake next to Timmy last night.

Timmy shudders and falls against Armie, one hand fastened to his shoulder so that there’s still room enough for Armie to bring them off together. Their hips nudge in rhythm with his hand stripping their cocks, but more than anything they just breathe, not kissing exactly, but with their lips held in slack little o’s and no space between them. Timmy’s face is still slippery, his cheek sliding along Armie’s, rasped by his stubble.

His mouth ends up below Armie’s ear, panting hotly. His hand ends up winged out along the pillow next to Armie’s head, its fingers gripping the top of his skull.

“Want you to come for me,” Armie heaves, pulling Timmy’s pelvis up by the hip so that he has more room to work. His knuckles graze the downy line of hair on Timmy’s navel with each stroke and it’s the friction of it all, coupled with the plain fact that he hasn’t shared an orgasm with Timmy in weeks that milks Armie seconds after the shift in angle.

Timmy’s face has slid into the crook of his neck and he comes too, his shout muffled in fabric and skin. His body seizes up, caged above Armie, back bowing, and then he collapses, making a mess between them.

Armie opens his eyes still breathing hard and looks around, wondering distantly how much sound they’ve made. He removes his soiled hand from between them and wipes it against Timmy’s lower back, who groans and rolls.

They recover side by side, positioned like tetris blocks to fit splayed out on the floor.

“Was that loud?” Armie asks the room, the worrying thought growing in volume as his post-coital buzz fades.

Timmy shrugs as best you can when laying down. “Probably.”

“Coool,” Armie drawls, though that’s not the word he’d use for it. Awful, maybe. Horrifying.

His long-discarded shirt is chosen as a come and tears rag, Timmy mopping at his face and then their dicks with it before chucking it over the other side of the bed and out of sight. Hopefully his parents see it in the morning. That would be the cherry on his embarrassment sundae.

The late hour starts to creep up on them then. It must be almost three and, even though Armie woke up late today, it’s been nonstop since and he’s tired.

Closing his eyes, he feels the brightness starting to dim on his thoughts, except for one thread that seems to glow no matter how long he waits for sleep. Timmy is on his phone next to him, the light evident even through his eyelids. Maybe that’s to blame for Matty coming to mind right after they’ve finished fucking; Armie won’t self-analyze right now.

He listens to Timmy’s nail tapping against the screen and waves out a hand to touch against his face to check that he’s no longer crying, but he doesn’t bother opening his eyes.

“I know that you still talk to Matty.”

Timmy goes completely rigid next to him and Armie opens his eyes to see his chin snapping sideways. He can practically hear the plethora of excuses and defenses that are bubbling up inside of Timmy, getting ready to boil over. His gorgeous green eyes are stricken and already threatening tears again.

Armie pushes out an awkward breath of air between parted lips. “Look, I don’t want to fight about it,” he assures Timmy, waiting for his expression to soften before continuing. “I’m not, you know, fucking stoked about it but --” Armie scrubs a hand over his face, trying to reconcile his warring emotions.

He doesn’t _actually_ know if Timmy is actively talking to Matty but, after a long night of stalking, he’s come to the realization that the TrumanBlack who’d been a staple in Timmy’s Instagram comments is Matty. Not only did he say something about nearly ever photo Timmy posted, but Timmy commented on a lot of his as well.

Armie took this discovery well, he likes to think. Or, well for him.

Okay, so maybe he could have handled it better.

He might have ended up punching through a wall when he saw, not only the mutual comments, but just how many posts there were of the pair; curls side by side, always black and white, silhouette shots of Timmy looking out the window back in October when DLID toured with the 1975, a shot of Matty in a hotel bed, smoking a cigarette, sheet draped over him… photo cred: tchalamet. One of the pictures that had really burnt him was a recent photo of Matty clearly wearing Timmy’s denim jacket. Timmy’s comment: looks familiar :)

But after pacing around the apartment like a _raging __lunatic_ as Jack had deemed him, smoking through an entire pack of menthol cigarettes and eventually patching up the dent he’d made in the wall because, “they’re going to take that out of my deposit, you caveman,” Armie had somehow managed to talk himself down. Once the initial flare of anger had subsided, he was able to come to terms with the fact that Matty continues to be an important person in Timmy’s life and that if Armie has any hopes of them making it together, then he’s going to have to accept that he’s probably not going anywhere. (It doesn’t help to know that he’s a huge part of the reason that Armie and Timmy are even on this trajectory in the first place.)

“I trust you, alright?” Under any other circumstance, his “Just don’t fuck me over,” might have sounded like a threat, but veiled in the darkness of the room and by the warmth between their naked bodies, it sounds more like a plea.

Timmy’s mouth just hangs open for a long beat or two, Armie’s reaction surely throwing him. He remains in stasis until Armie tells him he looks like a fish, which makes his eyebrows crumple and turns him into a petulant child. Then they’re both laughing until Timmy bites a kiss over his mouth and they go quiet again, turning back over so that Armie can slot himself against the smooth warmth of Timmy’s ass which is how they fall asleep.

-

During breakfast out the next morning, Timmy gets two phones calls while they shove bagels from Tompkins Square down their gullets. Fuel for the day.

Armie tries to argue for argument’s sake that the bagels are better in Los Angeles, and Timmy immediately threatens to break up with him, shaking a finger and speaking like he’s just said something unspeakably cruel.

They’re sat at a small table by the window, Timmy’s dumb backpack slung over the back of his chair. He keeps using his hoodie sleeve to wipe away cream cheese that is somehow constantly smudged over his upper lip.

“Maybe you should take smaller bites,” Armie suggests.

Timmy takes his bagels very seriously. “Maybe you should shut the hell up,” he sneers, looking like he’s about to throw hands until his phone interrupts the moment, buzzing against the table and his face. Vengeance forgotten, his face somersaults through the standard array of emotions when he answers, landing squarely on excitement. “Amber!”

Armie decides to hit up the restroom then to give Timmy a chance to catch up, assuming the call won't take longer than that, but when he’s sliding back into his chair, Timmy is still jabbering away. With nothing else to do, Armie listens in.

Timmy sounds disheartened, unsure. “I don’t know…” His eyes flutter up to Armie and back down to survey the table. He drags a finger through spilled pepper. “I might just go back home.”

Armie mouths _what?_, but Timmy waves a dismissive hand at him, his face hard and focused.

The call ends and before Timmy can even start, Armie jumps in. “You have to finish the tour.”

Timmy doesn’t look like he’s convinced but soon enough he nods, raking cream cheese off his lip for the fourteenth time. “You’re right.”

-

The next phone call happens while they’re ordering coffee from Timmy’s favorite cafe, MUD. Armie wants to gag at the hipsterness of it all, but Timmy is telling him three different stories at once about the last couple times he was here and Armie just doesn’t have it in him to disparage something he loves so dearly

“Shit, can you grab that for me?” Timmy asks, jutting out his hip to indicate the phone in his back pocket. He’s busy shuffling through receipts in his wallet. Armie makes a face because he’d rather not, but Timmy throws him a look, exasperated. “Dude.”

Armie rolls his eyes, slides Timmy’s iphone out of his pocket and immediately wants to chuck it across the room. Maybe it’ll knock those shitty glasses off the nearby manbun.

For once, he suppresses his baser instincts, sliding his thumb over the screen to accept. “Hang on,” he mutters, just in time for Timmy to turn around, eyes innocent and curious. Armie just shoves the phone into his hand and steps up to the counter to pay for their drinks while Timmy hangs back and talks with Matty.

This is what he gets for trying to be a better version of himself.

He wants to take back the shit he’d said last night, that he’s fine with it, that it doesn’t matter if they’re friends, or that Matty thinks it’s important to call just to wish his ex-lover a Merry Christmas because that’s fucking normal, right?

The coffee here isn’t strong enough. He needs a whiskey. And a fat joint.

The cold, bitter truth of it is that Armie made peace with Matty still being in Timmy’s life because he didn’t actually think that he’d, you know, be fucking present. Just a fly buzzing around in their periphery.

Waiting with their coffee, Armie suddenly wonders if Matty knows about Timmy’s grandma. Was he also on the receiving end of a tearful phone call? Surely Matty would know what to say to comfort a person dealing with the loss of a loved one...

His ears have been ringing with elevated blood pressure, causing him to miss half of Timmy’s conversation but he definitely doesn’t miss the wobbly laugh that flutters out of Timmy a few minutes into the call.

He’s about ready to go smoke the rest of his Marlboros when their eyes catch.

“Oh -- uh, okay,” Timmy’s voice changes, becomes clipped and awkward. He looks at Armie carefully, wearing an apologetic smile that is more frustrating than it is sweet. “Matty says ‘Happy Christmas.’”

It _was_, Armie thinks grimly, fisting his knuckles into his knees. That prick. “Okay.”

He can hear Matty’s lilt on the other end of the line when the noise in the cafe lulls for a moment. It takes him back to the week on tour, on having to see them together, Timmy so smiley and affectionate. Fuck, it was excruciating.

But when Timmy gets off the phone a few minutes later, it’s Armie he cozies up to, cheersing their to-go cups and directing them outside to walk the next few blocks and check out the storefronts still set up for Christmas.

-

When they get home, Pauline is setting up a game of Scrabble in the living room. Marc and Nicole are already sitting cross-legged on the carpet, glasses on coasters. Armie tries to skirt the whole event, informing Timmy of a sudden headache but he’s being dragged to settle in around the coffee room regardless.

Nicole wins, but Timmy puts up a good fight, only three points behind her by the end of the game. Armie doesn’t want to go into what his final score is.

After Scrabble, the family goes their separate ways to nap or relax and, eventually, come back together to order dinner--chinese from some place on their block. Armie is willing to go pick it up, but Marc wants to get it delivered in celebration of Christmas Eve.

They eat around their finished game and watch Kiss Kiss Bang Bang, which Timmy will go to his grave defending as a Christmas film, and then they split off for bed. It’s still early but Armie has a hunch that Timmy is afraid of being caught awake by Santa Claus.

They watch YouTube on his ancient macbook for awhile, but end up passing out before the lights go off downstairs. Timmy wakes up once in a pit of despair about Nana not being there when they go down in the morning, but he self-soothes while Armie pets his side, staying up until he’s snoring again.

-

Christmas morning with the Chalamets and Christmas morning with the Hammers looks much the same. Everyone wakes early and descends the stairs to stockings and presents stacked beneath a beautifully decorated tree in a beautifully decorated room. The fireplace is roaring and there are mugs of coffee or tea and breakfast to be had once everything’s been unwrapped.

It’s the cover of every Hallmark movie, but while Christmas looks the same Armie he remembers from all the times he’d spent it at home, it couldn’t feel more different. There is a warmth that permeates throughout the entire apartment that is largely foreign to Armie. It feels the way it’s always been advertised, comfortable and light, with spiked eggnog and obnoxious laughter--a manufactured happiness he was sure.

In Armie’s house growing up, everything was about tradition, Christmas included. The spirit behind it didn’t matter so much as the routine. Expensive, impersonal gifts. A photo for the family newsletter. Christmas mass.

Timmy wakes him up with cold feet against his leg at seven o’clock in the morning. When Armie’s eyes open, bleary, he is already blasting a 100 watt smile. “Merry Christmas, Armie,” he hisses excitedly, and squirms in for a kiss. Armie closes his eyes to deepen it but then Timmy is gone, bolting up off the floor and tearing away the blankets like a feral matador. “Time to go downstairs.”

Armie just looks at him.

“Come on, Scrooge.”

He reaches for a crenelated leg band of Timmy’s sweatpants. “What does that make you? Tiny Tim? I could be into that.”

Timmy kicks him with his free foot. “Take that back. You’re not allowed to be that creepy on Christmas.

“What’ll you do for fifteen shillings, my boy?” Armie simpers.

“Stoppp,” Timmy whines, shaking back and forth like a toddler about to have a tantrum.

Armie pushes up into a sitting position and draws Timmy closer with the hand around his ankle. He kisses the jut of bone before releasing him. ”Okay, okay. What’s on the agenda?”

He gets the rest of the way up and Timmy shoves a new pair of gingham patterned pajama pants into his hands. There is a second, smaller set folded at the corner of Timmy’s bed.

“What is this?”

“Tradition,” Timmy beams, shirking off his sweatpants to replace them with the new linen pajamas from the bed.

Armie isn’t wearing pants and his black boxer briefs are still partially tented from his morning hard-on but he slides them on obediently, impressed when he finds that they actually fit him.

His sour mood from yesterday has completely dulled and suddenly he’s filled with an assortment of complex emotions. Mostly docile, happy ones--confusing for a Christmas morning.

Armie has the sudden urge to be sick. He can’t believe he didn’t bring gifts. Not just for Timmy, but for the rest of the family too. Sorrowful, Armie turns to Timmy to tell him that he couldn’t fit his gift.

But Timmy beats him there. “Don’t feel bad, seriously,” he urges, ducking in to tie his hands around Armie’s middle behind his back. “I told you not to.”

“But yours…” Armie sighs. Outside the door, someone is pattering down the hall and then the stairs.

Timmy kisses him silent. “Shut up. I’ll open it when I’m home.”

-

Pauline, Marc, and Nicole are all wearing the exact same pajama pants when they get downstairs. “Merry Christmas,” they chime in unison, already snuggled together with steaming mugs on the long, cream-colored couch in the family room. The sound bar from their flat screen is playing Deck The Halls at a low volume.

Timmy hops over the back of the loveseat next to them and ushers Armie to join him. His mom automatically gets up to offer them drinks. She won’t take no for an answer, and so Armie puts in an order for black coffee that makes the rest of the Chalamet clan gag. Timmy demands an irish coffee with an extra mug just for whipped cream.

While Nicole is in the kitchen making their drinks, Pauline doles out the stockings. They look handmade, each one fully knitted with the owner’s name scripted out in red yarn. She hands a decorative spare to Armie, who wants to refuse. These people met him _four_ days ago. He’s an interloper here, at best; their immediate acceptance of him is unbalancing.

The stockings are mostly food-related. Assorted candy and novelty hot sauces, a pair of funny socks, things like that.

There is a sense of ease present that Armie wouldn’t ordinarily have access to when with so many new people. Timmy sits sideways with his back against the armrest and his legs folded into Armie’s lap while Armie keeps one arm slung over his thighs and holds his coffee in his spare hand. Conversation flows easily, Armie rarely finding himself censoring what comes to mind before allowing it to leave his mouth. The entire family is easy to talk with, amiable and engaged.

When they move on to the presents, Pauline is up again to play courier. “I can do that,” Armie offers, but she tells him she wants to.

Timmy opens his present from Pauline and immediately puts it on. It’s a beige hat that reads _In Dog Years I’m Gay_ on the front in black lettering. His parents laugh at it, Nicole snapping a picture for one of her friends that will find it hilarious.

Armie can’t relate.

Eventually the carpet disappears under tufts of discarded wrapping paper, everyone layered in new sweaters and hats. They’re sharing hugs and kisses and Timmy’s mom apologizes that she didn’t have more time to shop for Armie. It’s heartwarming but uncomfortable, because the fact that they got him anything--a few sets of drumsticks and a horrible Tommy Bahama shirt that he would bet Timmy didn’t know about if the look on his face when Armie opens it is anything to go by--is more than he would have ever expected.

He tries to make up his own lack of contributions in the gift department by offering to make breakfast, but Nicole is clearly the source of her son’s stubbornness and only agrees to let him help.

Armie will take what he can get, so long as he’s earning his keep.

-

After breakfast, they break for a nap. Timmy says that he’d only used that as an excuse so that they could fool around, but after a little making out he ends up falling asleep still wearing his new hat, only backwards.

Armie lays next to him and answers a few Merry Christmas texts, planning to FaceTime with Dakota later if it isn’t against Timmy’s rules. He also receives a bank transfer notice from his dad’s account with a ‘Merry Xmas, Armand’ memo. He only glances at the amount, more than some people pay for a semester of college, before shutting off his phone and rolling onto his side to catch some Z’s with Timmy.

-

Timmy is still asleep when Armie slinks out of bed to face the call he’s been dreading all day.

It isn’t snowing on the terrace, but it’s still pretty fucking cold. Armie’s thin linen pajamas are not cutting it. Still, he takes a seat on one of the patio chairs and sparks up a cigarette before pulling up his contact list.

The phone rings while he fills his lungs with smoke, staring out into the twinkling blackness of New York City.

“Yes, hello?”

“Hi Mom,” Armie exhales.

His mother makes a sound. It is decidedly happy. When she returns to the receiver, Armie’s dad crops up on the line too. “Merry Christmas, darling,” she says; he echoes the sentiment without the pet name attached. “We were hoping you’d stop by today.”

“I’m not in town, sorry. Merry Christmas though.”

“Oh. Doing a performance with your band somewhere?”

He doesn’t respond to that, asking instead, “How are you guys, and Vic?”

“We had a lovely day, didn’t we Michael?”

“Lovely,” he agrees.

It takes all of five minutes before they’re ripping apart his life choices, Hammer tradition finally finding a place in today.

“We just don’t understand why you’re so upset.”

Armie clenches his teeth against the filter of his second cigarette. “You know why I’m _upset,_” he grits, not liking the descriptor despite it being accurate enough.

“I don’t--if you’ll just come by for dinner one night, we can discuss things.”

“There’s nothing to discuss,” Armie tells her, scraping over his shorn hairline, fighting to keep his composure. “Maybe once you understand…fuck. I don’t know. I didn’t want to get into this shit. I was just calling to say Merry Christmas and thank you for the money.”

“We only want the best for you,” his mom tries, “you know that. We love you.”

Armie can feel himself looking over the precipice of this familiar slippery slope. He’d never had a good relationship with his parents but after what happened in Washington, he’s even more sure they’ll never find common ground. He steps back. “And I love you. Tell Vic hi from me. I have to go.”

He hangs up before they can get in another word and then, right on queue, the door to the terrace swings open. Armie shakes himself of the conversation and looks up.

Pauline is wearing a thick stocking cap and down jacket. She squeezes out the door and walks over carrying two flutes of champagne. “Everything okay?”

Armie doesn’t even try to refuse her generosity. He takes the proffered drink, looking into it instead of at her. “Yeah. My family just isn’t exactly the Norman Rockwell painting you have going on here.”

“We’re not perfect,” Pauline assures him, but she seems to understand. She’s smiling, her small hand patting lightly at Armie’s arm. “You must be freezing.”

He’d forgotten, but yeah. He nods.

Mercifully, she doesn’t press him for more information regarding his parents. Instead, she silently cheers him and takes a sip of bubbles. “So, you’re, like, way in love with my brother huh.”

Armie snickers. “No. Haven’t you ever seen Surviving Christmas? I’m just paying him off.”

She looks at him skeptically. “You’ve seen Surviving Christmas?”

“Maybe.” Dakota tortured him and Dev with it one year. “So how am I doing? You’ve all been too nice to me, I’m waiting for the other shoe to drop.”

Pauline laughs in a way so like Timmy that he does a double take. “I don’t know,” she teases, making a show of looking him over. “You’re definitely an improvement on Ansel though.”

Armie grins at that. “It’s a low bar.”

“It is,” she agrees, expression turning more introspective. “I’ve never seen him like this…”

“So miserable?”

“So happy,” she corrects, “well, except for. You know.”

“Yeah.”

They share a few more minutes together, talking about Timmy and about her, what she’s doing with her life, where she’s living. He holds the door open once they throw in the towel and head back inside to thaw out, finding that a budded fondness for her has bloomed during this moment alone.

He goes back upstairs to see if Timmy is awake and finds him trying out the new macro lens from his parents. He sticks it in Armie’s face to get a picture of his eye, whining when Armie moves.

“What’s wrong?” Timmy asks as if he’s discovered something painful in Armie’s expression after viewing it through his lens. “You’re wearing your angry eyes.”

Armie laughs, trying to sort out his features. He’s not mad persay, but Pauline’s palate cleanser wasn’t able to entirely edit his mood. “Called my parents, that’s all.” And he knows his voice sounds definitive, something he’ll have to work on. Timmy nods, looking like he’s going to burst with followup queries but smothering them when Armie changes the subject.

“I’m going to call, ‘Kota,“ he says, settling with his back against the headboard and his legs stretched out over the rumpled comforter. He finds her name in his recent calls list and hits send, needing to paint over the shitty call he was obligated to make with one that he actually wants to.

As soon as she answers, she’s switching them to a FaceTime call. Armie looks to Timmy for the okay. He’s not about to have another argument about this shit.

Timmy gives him a sheepish eyeroll. He sets down his camera and moves closer, pulling a face. “Obviously, it’s fine.”

The video goes through and her face pops up, the image mostly forehead. “You could project a movie on that thing,” Armie comments, and the angle shifts sharply to reveal Dakota’s disappointed red-lipped frown.

“Shut the fuck up, Armie,” she grumbles, combing her hair into place with her fingers. “And Merry fucking Christmas.”

Timmy scootches up into Armie’s side and swoons on sight, fitting his face into the little square next to Armie so that she can see them both. “Hi! I miss you!”

“Teeemmy!” Dakota cries.

And just like that the Christmas spirit has been restored. Dakota fills Timmy in on all the band shit that’s coming up, writing new music and getting ready to record. They talk about how much they miss one another, Dakota warning Timmy that he better make an effort to call her when he gets back on the tour bus with Amber. She wants to know how he’s doing with the Nana thing, but they don’t linger on the topic.

Jack pops into view at some point, to Armie’s surprise. He explains that he decided to spend the day with The Johnsons instead of booking a last minute flight home. Armie can relate, he’s spent many a holiday with Dakota’s family when things weren’t going great with his own, which was often.

“Does your mom like him better than me?” Armie asks jokingly but Jack looks worried.

“Doesn’t everyone?” Dakota laughs. Timmy nods enthusiastically at the camera, earning a pinch.

-

After the warmth and togetherness of Christmas, going to bed that night knowing what’s on the horizon makes for another bleak handjob before they give into exhaustion and fall asleep.

-

The day of the funeral is long and miserable.

Armie tugs aggressively at the cuffs of his suit jacket, as if pulling on the fabric will somehow make the cut long enough for his arms. He feels like a jackass.

Timmy breaks down when he attempts to knot his own tie in the mirror, his knuckles white as he whips the silk from around his neck. “Fuck ties,” he wails, “I fucking hate ties.” Armie decides to forgo his in solidarity.

No one is hungry for breakfast. He and Pauline split a banana while Timmy nurses a paper cup of orange juice. His leg bounces in the backseat of a cab on the way to the mortuary. Armie doesn’t try to settle it with his palm, instead just pushes his thigh against Timmy’s and tries to absorb the motion.

The rest of the family is trailing behind them in a second car.

“You look really good,” Timmy comments, his eyes bloodshot. “If I wasn’t mourning, I’d definitely want to suck your cock.” His smile is feeble but Armie knows he means it.

“Don’t you know?” Armie leans over, an attempt to make Timmy laugh, “cock sucking is one of the five stages of grief.”

The driver clears his throat and Timmy blushes, slapping a hand that Armie catches and holds against his chest.

“I hate you,” Timmy whines. Armie kisses the back of his hand.

“I know.”

-

The funeral is elegant and well-attended. Armie sits with the Chalamets in the first row, holding a square box of tissue for Timmy to draw from.

There isn’t a dry eye in the room as a slideshow cycles through photos on the front wall of his grandmother’s life; Timmy crops up in more than a few towards the end of the presentation, always smiling on her lap or at her side. Nicole gives a beautiful eulogy that he spends the majority of with his face hidden in Armie’s shoulder, muttering that he wants this to be over, that he wants to _sleep_.

Once the ceremony is over, they mull around and mingle with extended family and friends, Timmy making an effort to remain composed even while his face is heartbreakingly blotchy. Armie meets more of the family than he’d ever dreamed of, self-consciously shaking hands with pieces of tattoos crawling into view from under the short sleeves of his suit. For what it’s worth, everyone is lovely to him, though whether that’s because they’re not bothered by his rough exterior or because they’re blinded by grief, he isn’t sure.

-

At some point well into the afternoon, the circus packs up and they all pile back into cabs to head for the apartment.

Timmy is utterly spent, quiet and slumped. Armie helps him up the stairs and out of his clothes, tucking him in with the promise not to wake him up until he’s 24. Unfortunately, he sleeps fitfully, waking up while Armie is watching a music documentary on his phone to pitch over his lap and dissolve into hysteria. He lays in the fetal position with his forehead against Armie’s navel and cries so hard he chokes while Armie rumbles a stream of consciousness and rubs his back.

Nicole knocks some time after dark. She’s carrying a plate of sandwiches and chips and gives Armie an appreciative smile, though her eyes are unbearably sad.

“Thanks,” he tells her quietly, wary of waking Timmy now that he’s sleeping again. The plate is set next to him on the bed and then she departs, but not before letting him know that he’s welcome to anything in the fridge if he’s feeling hungry later.

With a heavy hand set between Timmy’s shoulders, Armie eats and wills the day to end.

Somehow, it finally does.

-

The bedroom hardly holds any light when Timmy wakes Armie up on his birthday.

“What time is it?” Armie asks around a yawn, his phone charging out of reach and Timmy’s dresser alarm clock obscured by a wad of dirty clothes. He hadn’t slept well, too preoccupied with whether Timmy was up and alone.

That wrecked version of Timmy isn’t present now, currently drawing out a curious shape on Armie’s cheek, his touch featherlight. His nail ice skates in a series of lazy swirls over his chin and jaw and lips. Only when Armie catches his hand does he answer. “I don’t know,” he admits.

Armie squeezes like he’s going to crush his fingers but lifts them to his mouth instead, peeling open his eyes to turn and look at Timmy. Intelligent thought pours in like sand. That’s right. “Happy Birthday.”

“Thanks,” Timmy whispers, lips buttoned over his smile. His t-shirt is soft against Armie’s naked elbow.

“Why are you awake?”

Timmy’s eyes rove his face in the weak light of...six o’clock in the morning? “Because I want to spend today with you.”

“We are,” Armie reminds him dumbly, pawing at Timmy to bring him more fully against his side. He’s still on his back but now Timmy’s body is hugging him. It’s been their go to position during this visit and even though Armie needs an adjustment from being crunched on a mattress that’s too small for him or on the floor, he wouldn’t trade it for anything.

Armie doesn’t realize his eyes have fallen closed again until Timmy is kissing him without any notice. Armie coasts a hand up his spine and into his hair, scrubbing at Timmy’s curls and kissing back. He absently traces the border of his hairline while they make out, the skin behind his ears and at the nape of his next warm and smooth like silk.

Their mouths taste like heat and sleep, and Armie hums at the reminder of Timmy’s particular sweetness, as if he’s snuck out of bed in the middle of the night for a sugary midnight snack. He moves his mouth only to be able to taste _more_, roving over his jaw and down his neck. Timmy gasps when his lips touch that certain spot he’s so sensitive about. It jogs Armie’s spotty memory. “Oh, wanna get your present?”

Timmy pulls back to gawk at him, unspooling along his arm, forcing it straight. “I thought it was back at your apartment.”

Armie shakes his head. He can’t help smiling at the look on Timmy’s face. “That was your Christmas present. Your birthday present is in my backpack. Don’t tell me you didn’t see it when you picked me up.”

A blank stare.

“You were probably distracted by my good looks,” Armie says, nodding in mock sympathy. “Can’t say that I blame you.”

Timmy hits him but then he’s whipping off the covers and sitting up. His eyes are razor sharp with focus. “Where is it?”

Armie thrusts out a wayward arm, pointing towards the door where his backpack is propped against a wooden bookshelf.

Before he can sneak back to sleep while Timmy is distracted, Timmy is back, sitting on his legs next to Armie again, only this time with a small, poorly-dressed box in one hand. “What is it?” he ventures, listening to the rattle the present makes when he shakes it.

“A puppy.”

Timmy snickers, “Thought so,” and slips his finger in one end of the wrapping to slice it open. He pulls the blue paper off, revealing a white box with the word Ambush stamped in blank lettering.

Armie lifts up onto one elbow to better watch him open the gift. He hadn’t expected to feel so nervous. What if Timmy hates it? He tries to reason with his heart rate.

Timmy’s fingers spider out over the box and he lifts the top off, a smile flickering to life when he brushes aside the tissue paper. He draws out a silver chain with one crooked finger. At the end of it dangles a long, thin vial. Timmy stares, transfixed.

“It’s for a cigarette,” Armie explains helpfully, and that gets him Timmy’s eyes. They bounce up to meet his own, and Armie is rattled by the amount of feeling he finds there.

“I fucking love it,” Timmy breathes out, like it’s a secret, only to change his mind a second later and pounce on Armie, repeating the sentiment at full volume, right in his face. “I fucking love it!”

He tries to put the necklace on immediately, bowing his head forward, curls rushing to obscure his face. After a short struggle though, Armie lifts his hands to help, snapping open the clasp. When the necklace is secured, it settles right at Timmy’s sternum, grooved between lean muscle.

Without thinking, Armie reaches for the hem of Timmy’s t-shirt, pulling it up over his head, wanting to see the cool metal resting against bare skin. He only gets a glimpse, however, before Timmy extinguishes any space between them by melting down onto Armie’s chest.

“I love you, did you know that?” Timmy sighs, cradling Armie’s jaw with his fingers. Armie’s answer is his kiss.

Distantly, he worries about Pauline or Timmy’s parents being awake, but it still feels early and even if they are, there’s no way that his and Timmy’s fooling around now is any louder than it was the night they came home pissed from the bar.

They kiss and kiss and roll, Armie covering Timmy up and Timmy reaching to re-drape them in the blanket. It’s huge, deep red, falling around Armie’s ears and hiding them in near darkness.

Armie isn’t tired anymore, every part of him wide awake, especially where Timmy splays his hand down his stomach, to his cock, touch greedy. Armie groans, pressing his hips down, letting Timmy really feel him. “What do you want?” he asks, nosing a trail up the side of Timmy’s face, speaking right against his ear. “Birthday boy gets to pick.”

“Just you,” Timmy coos blissfully, clamping his legs around Armie’s waist to demonstrate. “I just want to feel you.”

Armie hesitates. He doesn’t want a repeat of when they tried before and without any lube--

Timmy gasps, suddenly shoving hard at Armie’s chest. He scrambles to his feet once he’s able, loping over his bed and out the door with one hand down to corral his boner. The telltale patter of feet on hardwood fades, and then swells with little reprieve. Then Timmy is whirling back into the room and closing the door behind him.

Rounding the end of the bed again, he proudly lifts a little glass jar with a metal lid and drops onto his knees on top.

Armie looks at it, and at Timmy. “What the fuck.”

Timmy shakes the jar, willing him to understand, buzzing at his own perceived cleverness. “Coconut oil! he exclaims, his face immediately _oops_ing at the volume of his voice. His next words ride out on a whisper. “Pauline uses it in the shower, for her hair.”

Unconvinced, Armie takes the jar from him, tipped onto one side. He opens it carefully, unscrewing the lid. “Google it to make sure it’s okay to use for --”

“Oh my god. It’s fine.” Timmy shimmies out of his bottoms and lays down flat on his back atop his bed, his feet still grounded on the floor as he palms his cock to full awareness.

Birthday boy is demanding so Armie stands to get naked, flipping Timmy off when he requests a striptease. He only has on boxer briefs but he takes them off with a flourish just to make Timmy laugh.

Armie bends his knees and lowers himself on the floor, moving between Timmy’s thighs.

“If your dick isn’t inside me in the next ten minutes, I’m cancelling my birthday.” .

Armie crooks his finger to collect a glob of oil. It doesn’t look like enough, but when he pushes it between Timmy’s cheeks, it melts and smears, starting to drip down his knuckle. Timmy frantically grabs for a blanket and shovels it into his mouth to smother his moan.

“As if you’d ever cancel your own birthday,” Armie taunts, easing his finger in and out, over and over, mesmerized by the way Timmy’s body eagerly swallows it.

The oil is getting warm and Timmy is already writhing but he manages a petulant, “Yes I would,” between gasps and the mouthful of blanket.

Armie hooks his finger just so and Timmy convulses. “You fucking wouldn’t, you brat.”

Timmy rips the blanket from his mouth and props himself up, the necklace rolling from side to side over his chest as he heaves for air. God, he’s gorgeous.

“Did you come all the way here just to be a jerk to me in a different timezone?” Timmy’s voice is raw, his eyes dark. His lips are curled with amusement and desire and that special thing that will keep Armie wrapped around his little finger for the rest of time.

Armie responds by filling Timmy with more of his hand so quickly that he falls flat with a grunt.

The teasing goes on only until Timmy declares that he’s ready and forces Armie away with a foot stamping out against his chest. “Please,” he adds as an afterthought, gaze drawn to Armie’s hand coating himself with a few haphazard strokes.

It isn’t soon enough when he finally presses the blunt, leaking head of his cock against Timmy’s hole. Fuck, it’s heaven and he hasn’t even breached the first muscle. The ditch of Timmy’s knees slot perfectly over his shoulders, heels digging in to guide him forward. Armie gentles both hands around the curve of Timmy’s waist, so slender that Armie bets he would be able to make his thumbs touch if he squeezed.

Unable to wait any longer, he sheathes himself in heat and they are both wounded by the movement. Timmy’s face contorts, a moan bleeding out to match Armie’s punchy sigh.

He looks fucking beautiful, his eyes are hooded but alert, his mouth flushed from where Armie keeps dipping down to bite at his lips. He likes watching Timmy’s bottom lip steadily plump up the more and more he sucks on it, ruinously red.

“Come on,” Timmy urges, flexing all the muscles in his body, the pace not nearly enough to be gratifying, too smooth, too slow. “Comeoncomeoncomeon.”

Armie doesn’t have the resolve to make this last.

Their sweaty jerk off sessions, while intense, aren’t on par with the sweet, velvet heat of Timmy’s ass or watching as his fists grab helplessly at the fitted sheet, his gifted necklace swaying and pooling into the dips of Timmy’s throat and collar bones each time Armie snaps his hips.

“You’re fucking dreamy,” Armie grunts in a drawn whisper as their balls slap together, the coconut oil almost too warm from how fast he’s sliding in and out. “Holy shit, Timmy.”

Timmy doesn’t even respond verbally, just reaches out to wrap his hands around the back of Armie’s neck. He’s folded like a fucking pretzel and Armie has the vague, arrogant thought that no one was fucking Timmy like this back in high school. His room is witnessing something new.

“I’m going to come,” Timmy preens, starting to pull at his own dick. Armie alternates between the sight of Timmy’s blissed out face and the almost desperate strokes of his hand. “_Shit_, oh fuck. I’m coming —” His moans are cut off by Armie’s mouth because he’s going to wake the entire building but as Timmy clenches and stills underneath him, Armie comes too and he’s sure he’s not much quieter.

-

Once they’ve swabbed up most of the mess with Timmy’s old P.E. shirt and stretched back into some clothes, Armie drags over his box of new Doc Martens and feeds his feet into them without socks. At Timmy’s eyebrow raise he explains his motive. “I need a cigarette.” His head is still spinning from their sex. It’s been too long, his tolerance built fucking Timmy on the regular is gone.

The clock behind Timmy reads 7:44 A.M.

“Wait up, me too.”

-

They share a cigarette out on the terrace, standing against the guard rail. Timmy’s cheek is chilly against Armie’s shoulder. “So what do you want to do today?”

Timmy’s phone has been buzzing off and on all morning, phone calls and texts from half of the world wanting to wish him a happy birthday. Armie doesn’t know how to feel when Timmy slides the power button off, shutting them out.

Snow fell last night. It’s mounded on the table and chairs, and turning to slush under their shoes.

Timmy breathes out a white cloud but it could be smoke or air. He ruminates, tonguing at the lip of his cigarette filter. “Just hang out with you,” he voices eventually.

Armie plucks the cigarette away and takes a drag. “It’s your birthday. We can have dinner with your parents or go do something with friends. I’m sure there’s a bunch of artsy shit going on today. Want to go with Pauline to a museum?”

Timmy eyes him. “Nope.”

He’s such a little shit.

They sit in silence for a minute or two, smoking and ashing over the edge. When Armie kills the stick, he searches for the ashtray, but Timmy swipes the butt from him before he can dispose of it. Popping open the lid of the cylindrical vial on his sterling necklace, he drops it inside.

“I don’t think that’s what it’s for,” Armie chuckles, but Timmy looks pleased with himself, jingling the container before pushing it and the chain back under the collars of his shirts.

“Your flight leaves tonight--dick move by the way--so I want to just be lazy with you.” He loops an arm through Armie’s elbow, hugging them together to fight the cold. “We can go get bagels and then come back here and watch some LOST. I’ll celebrate with my family for real tomorrow before I head out to meet back up with Amber. Sound good?”

Even though they’ll be together again soon, Armie finds himself compromised by a thick swell of anxiety. It feels like they’re always saying goodbye. He tears his eyes away from the blushing skyline to press a kiss against the top of Timmy’s head. “Yeah, except that I may or may not have watched a few episodes without you.”

Timmy turns on a dime, chin cutting upward to confront Armie with a glare. “You fucking watched it without me?!”

Armie lifts his hands in surrender, trying to stifle his laugh and failing spectacularly. “Maybe just a few,” he confesses, wincing.

With an explosive snarl, Timmy shoves Armie back inside, grumbling something under his breath about demanding some respect now that he’s twenty-four years old.

Armie doesn’t have the heart to rain on his parade about that, allowing himself to be escorted inside by force, and back up the stairs where they will eventually peel out of their clothes again to fuck around and then catch the elevator for some Unquestionably-Better-Than-Anywhere-Else-In-The-World-Especially-Los-Angeles bagels.


	5. pressure

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> we love you guys sm. our inboxes are always open to talk myd or charmie or just life. <3  
-cpx & oyb

Timmy’s phone is at 5% and he’s panicking. 

“Dude, who even uses Android anymore,” he grouses at someone whose name he can’t remember. He might have met them an hour ago but it’s hard to be sure, so many new faces in such poor lighting. None of them are Amber or a member of the crew that he’s spent any amount of time with. And they’re certainly not Armie.

The party folds over him, shadows and laughter and a pumping bassline that shivers through the space. The setting would be fun if he weren’t so alone, Instead of celebratory, it just feels aggressive. He should be drinking. Timmy should be dancing--that’s what’s expected of New Year's Eve. 2020 is closing in and instead of being eager for what’s to come, he’s _scared_.

He wobbles his way down a set of painted stairs, popping up on his tiptoes every few steps, seeking out a familiar head. “Fuuuuck,” he mumbles, sucker-punched by his last shot of Bacardi. The strobe lights blur. He’s meeting that moment during a party when he becomes hyper-aware of his own inebriation and his priorities shift. All he wants is a burrito from the taco shop by his apartment, and then maybe to throw up.

And Armie. Fuck, he really, _really_ wants Armie, can’t stop thinking about how he isn’t here, or more accurately, how he is exactly where Timmy wants to be right now. 

Bodies swell in a square of movement, but he’s stuck clinging to a railing that’s been covered in stickers from local bands. The chipped paint under his palm is sticky. “Oh my god,” he cries silently, feeling almost frantic. It’s nearly midnight and he needs to FaceTime Armie for the countdown. How is it this hard to find a fucking charger?!

A lightbulb on the fritz, Timmy is fading in and out as he stumbles through crowds of revelers. Too high and too drunk; getting crossfaded away from home never ends well. He needs something to ground him, remind him of home. He_ needs _Armie. Fuck.

The only indicator that he isn’t an apparition is the sweat rolling down the back of his neck, making his sweater collar cling uncomfortably, and the almost painful slam of his heart against his ribs.

Last New Year’s was spent at Dakota’s, doing lines, drinking the cupboards dry, and playing music so loudly that Timmy had ringing in his ears for the next week and a half. Ansel had come and gone before the countdown, called into work. 

Disappointment flows alongside the alcohol in Timmy’s veins. Not because of Ansel, but because he can’t believe his shitty luck: another year without someone to kiss when the ball drops. 

Somebody knocks into Timmy and hugs him to apologize. He can smell their lingering perfume as their chests touch. It’s momentarily comforting, the warmth of another person but then they’re gone and so is he. 

He props up against a wall to catch his breath, closing his eyes against the wobble of the room. Breathing slowly, he works to recalibrate his mood, trying to reason with himself. 

It’s hopeless. His eyes are hot. They sting and he can’t lower the volume on his jackrabbiting heart. 

Despair is digesting him when Amber appears out of nowhere, both of her girlfriends in tow-- they flew into town to spend the last few dates with her, a new year’s surprise. Timmy isn’t jealous. Once he’s told them his sob story about tonight, he’s even grateful; Jordan has a charger in her purse. 

Timmy is so thankful, he could cry. Except that he already kind of is. With wet eyes, he kisses all three of them, hurried, sloppy pecks on each cheek of each girl. Six platonic kisses in total: not bad for NYE. They groan fondly in unison, matching doe-eyes seeing him off. “Find me after the ball drops!” Amber cries after him. “I’ll meet you out front for a cigarette.”

The next hurdle in reaching Armie and rescuing his evening is finding an outlet. The men’s bathroom has one next to the sink, but it’s full of people dry humping or breaking their seals. Timmy wouldn’t be able to hear.

He ends up outside on a small second-story patio, crumpled in a corner between a sun-rotten lounge chair and a bunch of crates filled with cleaning supplies. There’s an outlet currently being used to power string lights and a fake tiki torch, and Timmy unplugs one at random, the area going dim when the LED torch cuts out.

Florida sucks but at least the weather is mild. It’s quiet, too, just a rumble of vibration from the party within massaging the bottoms of his feet. There is a couple in the distance warming up for their midnight kiss that doesn’t seem to notice him intrude, nor his dead weight as he sprawls out, drunk and uncoordinated on the ground.

Timmy closes his eyes and focuses on not vomiting while he waits for his phone to draw enough charge to power on. He ignores all of his notifications and opens his recent calls list once the screen comes to life.

Armie is mid-laugh when FaceTime connects, his eyes off-camera for a second before Timmy makes a sound and they swing over. “Sorry, my phone is being a piece of shit,” he grins. His voice is a thick blanket. Even Dakota’s peal of laughter in the background helps his stomach settle. Armie has glitter all over his head and under one eye. Timmy can see details of Dakota’s room in the background.

“How’s the party?” he asks, despite not actually wanting to know; it will just make him feel worse about not being there. But he wants to hear Armie talk and it’s the first question that floats to the surface of his muddied mind.

“Good, started early but we have like---three hours to go still.” Armie pauses to take a sip of something out of an iridescent plastic cup. “What’s it like where you are? Almost time, huh.”

Timmy’s jaw locks to cover the tremble in his voice. “Cool, yeah. Somebody on the crew is from Tampa, so we’re at some club with a bunch of locals. Fucking, tons of people.” He holds the vowel in _tons_ for a long second, his eyes narrowing to watch for a reaction from Armie, frowning when he seems unaffected. 

“Cool.”

Logically, he knows that Armie would rather they were together tonight but his drunken loneliness has mutated into neediness on a new level. He can’t suppress his ire at Armie not reacting in the way he wants him to. “Like, a lot.”

Armie clamps his teeth into the edge of his plastic cup, smiling with his jaw locked. “I hate every single one of them,” he informs Timmy darkly. Timmy’s cheeks flush pink and he feels the chokehold on his temper loosen. “You and that fucking face of yours should be home.”

“You’re dumb,” Timmy says, pleased. Armie laughs. 

“You’re hot.” 

They go back and forth until breathing is easy again, his chest not so tight. Timmy is still wasted but at least he’s the one spinning--not the earth around and beneath him.

“How many more minutes?” Armie asks offhandedly, his head turned up and away while he peers into Dakota’s room, looking for him. Timmy feels his stomach twist with something other than drunken nausea when Armie flips off whoever is in the background and shouts, _”I’m fucking coming for you!”_ before looking back down at Timmy trapped inside his phone. “Sorry, it was Jack. He keeps bugging me to play some Irish drinking game that will probably put us both in the hospital.” Armie laughs like this has been an inside joke for a while now. 

Timmy’s face sours and shrivels. “Ten minutes.” His mouth is both dry and overly moist—he needs water but he’s sure he’ll just hurl it up. Puking has become, not a question of if, but when. “Don’t go to the hospital,” he mumbles nervously, too afraid to ask for what he really wants: Armie not to play a drinking game with Jack. Images of them red-faced and roughhousing plagues Timmy on his worse days, but he doesn’t get to make a call like that.

Armie laughs, but doesn’t respond. The FaceTime call drops for a moment and the screen reads _poor connection_ but before Timmy can properly panic, Armie’s fanged grin is back.

“And don’t -- fucking, even think about kissing Jack,” Timmy warns, unable to edit himself.

“What?” Armie’s laugh is a slow rumble, deep with his creeping intoxication. Normally Timmy adores it, knowing that particular laugh means they’re both well on their way to creating debauched memories but it sounds threatening from thousands of miles away. 

Timmy tries to do the mental math of how many days they’ve spent together versus how many apart since they’ve been an actual couple, his heart faltering when he remembers that DLID will be going on tour soon. He’s afraid to add it all up. 

“I’m serious,” Timmy speaks up, leaning forward and resting his elbows on his knees, looking out at the street below. “Not even as a joke.”

“I wouldn’t,” Armie assures him but Timmy rolls his eyes because yes, he fucking would. 

Five more minutes pass, their conversation finding its stride, banter passing between them as it always has. Timmy knows he might not remember any of what they’re saying in the morning but Armie is making him laugh and blush in spades, keeping his mind off of all the shit that’s been gnawing at him in the quiet moments: the distance, his nana, the fact that he won’t have a job when he gets back home, uncertainty and the unknown future.

“One minute.”

Timmy just nods, watching Armie’s face, his eyelids heavy but focused as if Armie might suddenly look different once Timmy is living in 2020. 

“Happy New Year,” Armie shouts through his phone, shaking a fist in the air. Timmy is laying on his back, cool cement seeping through his clothes. The entire city and the party inside is bursting with noise, fireworks going off in the sky in all directions, screams and shouts of everyone welcoming in a new decade with the people that they love. 

That’s what Timmy’s doing too. He hovers his phone over his face and shakes his head. “Unhappy New Year,” he says, but it’s reluctantly fond. “Until I’m home. It doesn’t count until I’m home.” 

Armie nods. “Four days.”

“Three days. It’s midnight.”

“Three days.” 

They both smile in different years.

-

Timmy’s plane touches down late the next Saturday morning, after a layover in Denver. He stumbles into the airport, zombified after spending all night saying goodbye to his tourmates and catching a pre-dawn flight. 

Swept through the crowds and outside, he catches a lyft and, halfway asleep, gives the driver Armie’s address instead of his own. It’s half-intentional; he had entertained the idea of surprising Armie while sleep-watching The Joker at 30,000 feet, but only realizes he’s actually headed to Armie’s apartment once they’re merging onto the freeway.

His heart thumps giddily in his chest like a dog scratching its ear as Los Angeles sweeps by the window. Timmy’s head is lolled against the seatbelt. He takes a deep breath and pretends that it’s smog he’s inhaling, not his favorite thing about L.A. but an undeniable marker that he’s back. It feels good, like coming home even though that’s where he’d spent Christmas. Without him realizing, Timmy has grown roots in two places.

He smiles to himself as he thinks about New York while Los Angeles welcomes him with crooked palm trees and yellow skies. He remembers Armie on his family’s small sofa, legs too long, shoulders too wide and wedged between his mom and Pauline, remembers the meals and the outings and how, even though Armie doesn’t look right against the backdrop of Chalamets, that he’s a perfect fit. 

Slumped in the backseat, Timmy mulls over telling Armie that he’s on his way, anticipation flickering against the dimness of his exhaustion. But a surprise will be fun, and reminiscent of when Armie showed up at his door months ago after being on the road with DLID. Timmy hopes to repay the favor.

-

Timmy’s legs don’t want to cooperate and climb the stairs up to Armie’s front door once the lyft driver has dropped him off and pulled away from the curb. His backpack is too heavy, his body weighed down by a month of carrying more than just his clothes on his back. Lugging his mounting emotional baggage across state lines has taken its toll.

But, in the end, Timmy manages because he knows what’s on the other side of that door. With a thin, stuttery breath, he jumps up the stairs and turns his hand into a fist, knocking. The complex is quiet while Timmy waits, holding himself still, his focus hazy but ears sharp; he’s listening for footsteps.

After a beat of nothing, the rhythmic sound swells, and then the locks are being undone and the door is opening. Timmy gathers himself, fingers knotted around the arm straps of his backpack. 

He wants it to always feel this way with Armie, the anticipation, the impatience. The need to be reunited.

A face is revealed, handsome and genial as ever, but it’s wrong. Jack is blocking out the doorway. He’s let his beard grow, far more substantial than anything Timmy would ever be capable of. It’s well-groomed, his smile easily defined. “Holy fuck! Timmy!”

Timmy’s own grin cracks like an egg, slipping over his face. “Hi, Jack. Is Armie home?”

Jack’s expression wilts a little. “He isn’t,” he sighs, “he’s still at practice with Dakota and Dev. They’ve been getting together constantly in prep for recording.”

Timmy’s backpack straps slip down his shoulders to the ditch of his elbows. He slumps, melted by a wash of disappointment. “Oh.” He pulls out his phone, tapping the screen on without opening it. Dammit. He needs to call another lyft to take him to his apartment.

Jack catches his intent and moves out of the way of the door. “Come in,” he says, nodding his head in a hook-like motion as if to pull him inside. “He should be back in a few hours. Hang here.”

Timmy exhales frustration and follows Jack in. 

Jack claps him on the shoulder, big blue eyes flashing over him like headbeams to check that Timmy’s alright before he pads back over to the couch. A PBR is balanced precariously on one leather arm. “I’m watching Kill List if you want to chill here with me, but I know Armie wouldn’t give a shit if you passed out in his room. You look wrecked.”

Swinging his backpack down into his hand, Timmy sputters a laugh. He’s still free-falling, but grateful. He does an awkward bow. “Thanks, dude. Yeah, I think I’m gonna do that. Good to see you.”

Jack nods his head, perpetually understanding, and waves Timmy back. 

A pair of Dakota’s white converse is piled next to the door on the left, but Timmy goes right. The door for Armie’s room is closed. He eases it open and is immediately baptised by the distinctive scent of him. Nicotine and mint. Musk and cologne. Timmy fills his lungs with it, a rumble of missing Armie and loving him rolling through his body, God, he’s been so hollow without this.

The first thing that processes once he’s sealed inside is that Armie’s room looks like a bomb hit it. Timmy is well aware that he’s the “messy” one in this relationship but the current state of Armie’s room would rival Timmy’s living room on even his darkest days. 

There are clothes _everywhere_, like they’ve rained down from the sky. Mounds of black in different shades, littered from bed, to dresser, to closet, to floor. A punk rock connect the dots. 

The hamper is nearly empty but based on the musty edge to the air, laundry hasn’t been getting done. Timmy spots the backpack Armie took to New York and notices that he hasn’t even unpacked it. It sits looking ravaged, mouth agape and the contents oozing out. 

If Timmy were to ascribe a word to Armie’s room it would be _busy_. And based on how difficult the last few days have been communication-wise, Timmy supposes that he is. 

Chucking his own backpack next to the bookshelf, Timmy kicks out of his boots before getting into Armie’s bed, unmade but inviting. Under the covers, he sends out a text to his parents that he made it, and one to Dakota so that she doesn’t start planning a playlist for his funeral.

Timmy:  
home safe. imy!

No one replies instantly and Timmy turns over his phone, clicking off the ringer. He closes his eyes, toying with his necklace under his shirt, the silver warmed by his skin, and lets himself marinate in the realization that the journey is over. This tour can be checked off his to-do list. His morning of travel has resolved itself with Timmy finally firmly re-potted in Los Angeles. Armie is in, if not the same zip code, then a manageable vicinity. 

Faintly, Timmy can hear yelling and gunfire in the front room, but within a minute or two of laying down, he is fast asleep.

-

“Best. Surprise. Ever,” Armie says, slowly for effect. The tone of his voice is steeped in happiness. Its rich timbre coaxes Timmy back to life.

He was having a dream where they fought, but the details dissolve at the edgeless sight of Armie putting a knee up on the bottom edge of the bed and climbing towards him, still wearing his new Doc Marten boots from Christmas. Everything else is also black, as it should be.

And like that, Timmy’s world makes sense again. 

He makes a sleepy sound, soft and thick. Armie presses his lips against the side of his face before he starts moving at the end of the bed. Timmy wonders what he’s doing but then hears two _thuds_ hitting the floor.

“You’re a sight for sore eyes,” Armie says, kissing the words into the skin of his neck. Timmy tries to roll over but Armie barricades him with his legs, keeping him flat on his stomach. “Mm.” It’s almost like Armie isn’t talking to him, just the various parts of his body that his lips connect with. “You okay?”

“My ass is numb,” Timmy mumbles, half of his face hidden by the pillow. Armie’s hands smooth over his waist underneath his layered outerwear.

He kneewalks back a foot, re-straddling Timmy’s thighs. “Long flight?” he guesses, kneading his thumbs into the shallow dimples in Timmy’s lower back. His hands are calloused and hard, just like everything else about Armie, but they’re intentional as he starts to massage his way down. Sometimes Timmy thinks that Armie knows his body better than he does, his touch unwavering in its exploration, pinpointing everywhere that feels tight or knotted.

He makes an appreciative sound, still navigating through the fog of his nap, and reaches back with one hand to cuff Armie’s forearm, just for a second, just to check that he’s real. “Long month,” he mutters, turning his head back into the pillow. A quick montage of everything that’s happened over the past four weeks flashes through his mind. It depletes him. “Now that I’m back, I wanna sleep for at least twenty years.”

Armie hums thoughtfully, his hands still working into the lean meat of his lower back. Timmy doesn’t remember when his joggers and underwear were pulled below the curve of his ass. It doesn’t matter. “Go ahead.”

“What will you do while I sleep?”

“I’ll keep myself busy, don’t worry.”

A thrill zips up Timmy’s spine. There’s no way he’s sleeping now. But he doesn’t move either, remains in repose while Armie burrows his fingers into Timmy’s hip muscles, his weight a comforting anchor against Timmy’s thighs. “How was band practice today?” 

He feels his — Armie’s actually — band shirt being pushed up, up, up before lips brush against the top knot of his spine, there and gone. “Good. Dakota’s going to want to see you. She’ll be over later.”

“Maybe we could do dinner with her,” Timmy proposes. He misses her too, so much. He can’t wait for her hug, wants to be crushed in it.

Armie traces the elastic of his underwear, snaps it with a flick of his fingertip. Timmy promptly forgets about everyone else in the world. “Maybe.” 

Timmy can’t help himself. His hips push back of their own will, and Armie’s grip tightens. He inches further back on Timmy’s legs, affording himself more room. Timmy’s underwear and pants are rolled lower.

The sky is overcast, soft greys pouring through the window in Armie’s room, casting everything monochromatic. But when Timmy closes his eyes, he sees vibrant color; Armie’s tanned skin and painfully blue eyes, his pink lips, red tongue. 

Armie has both palms splayed out over his buttcheeks. The wet dab of his tongue makes contact with the skin between Timmy’s shoulder blades while one thumb teases down the seam of his ass. Again, his mouth is there and gone. 

Timmy looks back and sees Armie’s eyes on where he’s spreading his hands. He flushes with embarrassment but not enough to flinch or ask him to stop. It feels too good, the slow-churning anticipation of whatever’s coming next. No, he is definitely not going back to sleep. 

“How was your goodbye party last night?” Armie asks, not sounding like he’s very invested in the answer. He tests the pucker of Timmy’s hole, once, twice, before turning his hand around and slipping in just the tip of his middle finger, palm seated at the top of his ass.

Timmy cuts out a breath, gripping the pillow. His shoulders shift under the rucked layers that he wears, fully exposed from the backs of his thighs up to his armpits. “Bittersweet. Amber and I talked about getting back together when she’s in L.A. next month. I’m going to miss everyone.”

“Mhmm,” Armie breathes, pressing deeper. Just like Timmy thought--he isn’t listening. 

“I want you to meet her, eventually.” Timmy’s brain crackles with the pleasurepain of Armie’s long finger almost knuckle deep inside of him. 

“Sure.”

Armie’s mouth touches down again, traveling along the ridges of his spine towards the dimples in his lower back. He pushes Timmy’s cheeks apart with his other hand and spits. It feels dirty and wet and sexy. Armie smears saliva up and down his crack, making a mess before circling back to his hole and pushing all the way in this time. Timmy makes an involuntary sound, high-pitched and full of want. 

“You like that.” It’s never a question when Armie says it with his voice bottoming out like that. Timmy doesn’t have it in him to be coy right now. He bites the pillow and nods, arching his back in a demand for more. Armie is eager to comply.

-

A few minutes later it’s Armie who’s making the demands. “Don’t fucking move,” he growls. Timmy can’t hear much outside of his own labored breathing, the blood rushing around his ears, but he does make out the sound of Armie unzipping his jeans and the snap of a lid. There’s no preamble or warning when Armie drizzles lube over him, sliding warm fingers up his inner thigh, cupping his balls, before pressing into him once again. 

The mattress shifts under Armie’s moving weight and Timmy can tell that he’s got his cock in his other hand because his fist is rhythmically tapping against the perch of Timmy’s right cheek. 

It’d be a fucking travesty not to bear witness to the sight of Armie straddling him, simultaneously jerking off and fingerbanging him so Timmy contorts himself, his eyes drinking in as much of the scene as he can. Armie’s thighs are thick and spread over his sides, his black boxer briefs tugged down just enough to free his dick. 

Timmy wonders idly if anyone’s ever had an aneurysm from being this turned on. If not, there’s a first time for everything.

His cock twitches from where it’s trapped between his body and the bed. His hips start to pump with desire, small, careful twitches at first, wanting Armie to lead his momentum. But then Armie starts to massage that soft knot inside of him, teasing the pads of his fingers over it again and again. Timmy shudders, shoulders winged out as he lifts up onto his elbows for leverage and starts to rut against the mattress in earnest. Armie is breathing loudly behind him, heavy gusts of air, and his wrist is working overtime. 

The friction of his dick against the covers has Timmy reflecting in his lusty haze of fucking a pillow while on the phone with Armie, months and months ago—back when Drive Like I Do were on tour and Timmy didn’t know it was possible for someone like Armie to love him.

He comes with a strangled shout, Armie painting the small of his back seconds later. 

“Welcome home,” Armie pants contentedly, collapsing next to Timmy, wiping up the mess he made with the tail of a blanket. Timmy rolls out of his wet spot and up onto Armie’s side.

“Thanks. You need to do your laundry.”

-

An hour later, after water and a nap that left Timmy wondering what day it was when he woke up, they are still laying about in Armie’s room. Timmy hasn’t even made the effort to get dressed, still splayed completely naked in a post-coital heap watching Armie from the bed. The sheets have been stripped so he is bare-assing it on Armie’s mattress, resting on his back between the pillows, phone open to an article from Matty about plastics in the ocean while Armie replaces the drum head on his snare.

“Did you know that 46% of the trash in the ocean is just old fishing gear?”

Armie doesn’t look up from where he’s hunched over his desk working in his underwear. They haven’t even properly cleaned the jizz off of each other’s skin yet. 

After a delay, Armie sort of grunts.

“You’re not listening again,” Timmy sighs, throwing one of the bed pillows at him. It misses, cartwheeling through the door and smushing against the floor in the hall. It looks crumpled and defeated -- Timmy can relate. In all fairness, the last leg of tour had been busy for the pair of them but Armie had started to become unreachable towards the end, always at practice or writing or meeting with his label.

When there’s too much silence in the room, Timmy automatically hones in on the soft sounds of Jack and Dakota fucking around in the room across the hall. Timmy doesn’t love hearing someone he thinks of as a sister getting laid, but figures it’s karma for whatever Pauline went through during Christmas.

Armie has completely tuned it out, it seems, just like he’s done with Timmy.

“So I’m thinking of shaving my head,” Timmy says conversationally, experimentally, and when Armie’s response is a placid, “that’s cool,” he launches himself out of bed to knock him on the back with his fist. “Stop ignoring me, you fuck.”

Armie picks his pen up away from the paper he’s scribbling on, snare drum next to his elbow. His face turns and his arm loops around Timmy’s waist, fingers dancing against his bare flank. “Sorry, what’d you say?”

Timmy’s tone is only a little bruised. “That I was going to shave my head.”

“Are you?” Armie’s eyebrows go up, and Timmy rolls his eyes.

“No. I was just checking to see if you were paying attention. Which you’re not. Not to me, and not to Jack and Dakota making the beast with two backs over there. What the hell.”

Armie chuckles, twisting in his desk chair so that he can wrap his other arm around Timmy and bring him into the space between his legs. He leans forward to inhale at the center of Timmy’s chest. “Oh, I’ve become an expert in ignoring _that.”_ He props his chin against Timmy’s sternum, fanning him with his stupid eyelashes, “But I’m sorry. I’m just trying to crack something.”

Timmy allows himself to be pulled into Armie’s lap, his leg hair tickling the underside of Timmy’s thighs. “Crack what?”

“Luca wants us to release a single before we leave for tour. The album won’t come out until after, but with a single and a few interviews they can start feeding the marketing machine. I want to tweak the intro on the new song we’ve written before we hit the studio Monday, it’s what we were working on at practice too.”

Fuck, that’s so exciting. Timmy tells him so, wobbling the chair onto its back two legs with his enthusiasm. “You’re going to be fucking rockstars,” he gushes, kissing Armie.

They’re both doing big things, chasing dreams, making it happen. 2019 was a year of change and 2020 is going to be where it all comes together; he can feel it.

Armie secures both arms around Timmy’s back, kissing him soundly and letting him bounce. Too soon, he rips his mouth away, “Oh shit.”

Timmy doesn’t drop his hands from the sides of Armie’s throat. “What is it?” he asks, but Armie’s only answer is to dump him back into bed and stride over to his closet. His upper half disappears behind the stacked doors for a second. “Your Christmas gift.”

He tips back into view gripping an oddly-shaped present. It looks like there wasn’t enough of one wrapping paper pattern, so another had to be added. There is a lot of tape and peeking fabric.

Without sitting up completely, Timmy thrusts out both hands. He’d totally forgotten. “Gimme.”

Armie lobs the present.

With one swipe, the fabric comes away in a crinkled shell of red and gold stripes, and snowman print. Timmy twists so that he can roll onto his feet and get a better look. 

It’s a backpack. Timmy is taken back to their conversation at the train station and the comical sight of his current pack regurgitating up an advent calendar.

This backpack looks serious. It has a bunch of straps and compartments and is split in half by two colors — wheat and off white. It’s a serious upgrade from the one he took on tour, a cheap knock off he’d bought at Target when he first moved to Los Angeles. 

The fact that Armie had purchased something so practical for him makes Timmy want to cry; it’s so domestic.

“For the next time you leave me,” Armie tells him, still standing near the closet, long legs bare and mottled with tattoos hidden beneath hair.

“It’s fucking perfect,” Timmy effuses, tearing open each zipper and staring inside, “but don’t even talk to me about either of us leaving again.” 

Drive Like I Do is going on tour in six weeks and Timmy shakes the ticking of this dreaded countdown from his mind, choosing instead to focus on the intricacies of Armie’s gift. In the pocket that would be pressed against his back, he’s hidden a bag of Timmy’s favorite candy: Milk Duds.

By the time his eyes lift from the new gift, Armie has reached the bed and is overwhelming him, drowning him in warm skin and hot breath and a rush of _love_.

-

Their round two is stiff competition for the noises coming from Jack’s room. Armie ends up having to seal a palm over Timmy’s mouth to keep the neighbors from lodging a noise complaint, he’s so loud.

-

Once everyone has vegetated for a while longer and showered (in pairs) they go out to dinner as a foursome.

Timmy is hungry first, his body still fucked on timezones, so they pick someplace with a bar where Armie and Jack can nurse drinks while Dakota squeezes every detail of tour from Timmy over queso dip and hot wings.

It feels so fucking good to be home. Tour was a blast, a new, cherished experience, but it has nothing on this. Easy laughter and an unshakeable sense of belonging. He’s back with his people and eager to inject some normalcy into his life. Regular sex and late dinners and cheap movie Tuesdays. Morning afters with LOST and bloody marys. 

He and Armie haven’t truly had a chance to settle into a routine, but despite DLID heading out on the road again soon, Timmy sees these six weeks as their chance. 

Holidays are over. The big surprises are done. 

“What are you going to do for work now?” Dakota asks, because she mothers the hell out of Timmy and his coming home without a job locked down is probably eating away at her.

Timmy takes his time chewing his mouthful of cheeseburger before answering. He checked in with Daniel at Whole Foods while away and learned that his position had been filled. It felt a little scary, finding that out, but he can’t see himself going back to retail after making a paycheck on the road taking pictures anyway. He swallows and pulls a sip of Malibu and Coke. “I’m going to focus on securing a gallery for my book release and take on some freelance projects, I think.”

“Good for you, mate,” Jack winks. “You’ve got the talent. An’ I bet you’ll have more bands wanting to book you for their shows--I’ve seen your instagram. There’s a proper buzz going about you.”

Timmy wants to cover his face with his hands but they’re greasy. He shakes his head, smiling, the tops of his ears pink from attempting to tuck back his wild curls so many times. A nervous tic. “We’ll see. Amber did say that she was going to put in a good word for me with Jeremiah Jones. They have a gig at the Wiltern that they need help with, for a doc or something.”

Armie shoulders him, his face in his beer glass. When he resurfaces he scolds Timmy, “What the fuck, you didn’t tell me that.” And the way he’s looking at him, with such a warm, proud expression. It’s like turning your face towards the sun.

“Just happened last night at the goodbye thing,” Timmy shrugs, trying and failing to manage his expectations about it. Shooting Jeremiah Jones would be a dream; they’re a wildly popular band, on the same scale as the 1975, if not bigger. It would be good money, he imagines, and only one night of work. 

He tugs on the loose collar of his borrowed sweater--one that Armie let him steal from his meager selection when Timmy’s last clean outfit was thoroughly soiled in their marathon fucking this afternoon. His entire chest feels flushed with embarrassment, but mercifully the conversation shifts back to DLID’s imminent recording session quickly enough. Jack worries about forgetting what Dakota looks like while she’s holed up in the studio and Timmy commiserates, though he’s planning to be there for most of it.

One of the few perks of unemployment.

-

After dinner, they walk to an old “Irish” pub across the street that deeply offends Jack to his core. Armie surprises he and Timmy both in the bathroom with a little glass vial of cocaine drawn from the inside pocket of his coat. They stare at each other in their tight huddle, surrounding the substance, smiles slow-growing. The trajectory of the evening has changed. “Gentlemen?”

-

It’s a good fucking night, and one that doesn’t end until the sky is beginning to blush with a new day’s sun. 

When they all finally retire, cigarettes and empty bottles scattering the apartment balcony from their late night after-party, Timmy sinks into bed beside Armie fighting his comedown and feeling renewed.

-

Sunday is for much-needed recovery and Monday, it starts.

-

There is an electric quality to the air when Timmy wakes up on the first day of DLID’s album recording. 

Armie isn’t in bed, or even in the room with him. From his cocoon of blankets, he can hear the shower is going.

In an effort to be useful, Timmy gets dressed and sets himself the task of making breakfast. He is pillaging the contents of the fridge when Armie emerges wrapped in a towel, his nerves peeking into his posture. Spine straight, shoulders stiff.

It’s quiet in the apartment while Timmy burns some toast and pushes around runny scrambled eggs in a pan. Armie drops a kiss into his hair and leaves to smoke out on the balcony.

Jack is on the phone with Dakota when he leaves for work, wishing Armie good luck on the way but not before he lets Timmy know that he’s banned from cooking in their kitchen ever again. The fire alarm is going off and he’s maimed Jack’s favorite pan.

Timmy’s embarrassment makes Armie smile, which makes him smile too. “That’s why he didn’t get any breakfast.”

Armie tips his plate and slurps up the last bit of eggs. “Yeah, poor him.” He grimaces dramatically and Timmy pops out an indignant laugh. “Come on, let’s go before I die of dysentery.”

-

In the small space of Armie’s Altima, Timmy draws out some of his anxiety.

“I’ve wanted this for as long as I can remember,” Armie says quietly. His hands are soldered to the steering wheel, the muscles in his forearms tense. “I just don’t want to fuck it all up.” 

Timmy rubs his arm. “You won’t. Now explain again what happened on LOST last night, I fell asleep.”

-

Dev is already there when they pull up to Sunset Sound, an unassuming building in the middle of Hollywood. Armie tells him on the way that it helped birth some of the greatest records of all time, but you wouldn’t know by looking at it. Timmy is admiring the funky sign out front when Dakota's El Camino pulls up, honking.

Once they all file inside, Timmy folds himself into hugs from Dev and Dakota both, thanking them for letting him be a fly on the wall. His DSLR camera hangs from around his neck, squeezed between their chests. He feels really lucky that they all trust him enough to look in on the process, and promises to stay out of the way, even going so far as to dub himself their _coffee bitch._ “I’ll make sure to keep you well-supplied.”

Dakota tugs on the strap of his camera and kisses him between his brows. “I knew there was a reason I loved you.”

Armie watches the love fest with a tepid smile, guiding Timmy further into the building with a hand on the small of his back once they’re done with hellos.

-

Well into the afternoon, Timmy is sitting on a long, worn leather sofa on the opposite side of the glass panel where Armie tracks. Dakota is perched next to him at the edge of the cushion, elbows on her knees, chewing her nails and making comments to the recording engineer currently posted at the console.

A bag of sandwiches--Dev’s doing--is open on the table in front of Timmy, and trapped beneath it is a sheet of paper. His fingers scrabble for it. Lyrics to the song that Armie’s tracking right now -- Drive Like I Do’s first single: Ceramic Mermaid. Dev’s already laid down the bass and Dakota the guitar, but she has yet to record vocals. Timmy’s eyes skim some of the lyrics: _the pearl at the bottom of the sea, cold tiles meeting knees and too many nosebleeds, i’ve forgotten how to leave. _ Timmy smiles, remembering all that has transpired in Dakota’s infamous bathroom. 

Armie plays the drums in the studio exactly like he does at live shows; no shirt, little black shorts, eyes focused and jaw tight.

For a minute, Timmy is transported back to the first time he’d seen Armie play with DLID. June of last year, when he was only a name and a face in Dakota’s drunken stories. Timmy’s stomach does a complicated somersault as he tries to imagine how past-Timmy would react if someone had told him back then that eventually, after a whole lot of fucking up, _that guy_, Armie Hammer, would end up making him come with his tongue up his ass. And you know, also fall in love with him. 

Timmy blinks away the memory of Armie’s mouth around his dick last night, startled by Armie exploding a frustrated shout through the speaker.

“Dude, it’s fine.” Dakota says cooly once Armie has finished his string of compound swears. “You’re just too tight on the break. Don’t rush it.”

Armie looks pink and angry. This is the fourth time they’ve had to stop and every time he resets, searing blue eyes slice Timmy in half. He’s beginning to worry that he’s done something wrong, though he can’t for the life of him puzzle out what.

Everyone in the room is waiting to see if he’s done with his tantrum or just catching his breath. After a pregnant pause, Armie kicks out from behind his set. “I need a cigarette.” He ignores Dev and Dakota’s soft encouragement to take a break and storms out back. Timmy chews his lip and counts to 30 before following him. 

Something about Armie’s posture when he finds him pacing like a caged animal reminds Timmy of their early days, back before he’d stubbornly peeled away Armie’s defenses. He feels dangerous, like Timmy might cut himself if he doesn’t handle Armie in just the right way.

“You sound really good,” he starts, but Armie extinguishes his praise by holding up one hand. The other presses a cigarette between his lips. Timmy lets the rest of his pep talk dissolve, watching Armie’s chest rise and fall as smoke leaks out from his nostrils, his skin slicked with sweat, blotches of pink spread over his muscles, accentuating all of his smudgy tattoos. 

Armie shuts his eyes and shakes his head. “Don’t.” He pulls in another lungful, setting his bald head back against the grimy panel wall. “Save the sugary bullshit.”

This, Timmy ignores, approaching Armie slowly and sinking against his chest when it’s clear he won’t be denied. His cheek slides over the bar of Armie’s clavicle. “You’re just nervous. This is huge, I get it. But you’re incredible. There’s a reason you’re here.”

After a long beat of hesitation, Armie softens in his arms and holds the hand that he’s smoking with against Timmy’s nape, pinky finger absently combing down his curls. “Thanks for coming,” he sighs, sounding like he’s working to unwind himself. They stand in silence, listening to traffic and when they go back inside, he plays better, more assuredly. Timmy watches him through glass and gushes to Dakota about his talent. Dev keeps his praise to himself, even going so far as to flip a switch to call Armie a wanker, but he’s grinning all the while.

It’s a productive first day. His friends are fucking talented.

-

The second day goes well too, but it’s a Tuesday and Timmy’s grief surrounding his Nana is still ever-present. If she were alive he would call her from the parking lot and tell her all about hanging out at a recording studio where Prince created Purple Rain. Instead, he sits alone and talks to Pauline while Dakota is inside laying down her vocal tracks and Armie is reviewing his drum parts from yesterday.

-

Day three hits a snag, a few creative differences but they argue through it like a family. It’s still all love.

-

It’s not until the second week that Timmy feels a serious shift.

He shows up with coffee for everyone Monday to combat hangovers from their one day off; black, au lait, and a soy latte. He gets a thank you from Dev, and a grateful swat on the ass from Dakota, but Armie doesn’t say anything and his goes cold, the gesture ignored or resented--Timmy can’t tell. 

Looking for some way to help, Dakota gives him access to the DLID IG account so that he can post stories for their fans, capturing sneak peeks and behind the scenes of the process. 

“Fuck that,” Armie balks from where he’s adjusting his high hat. “I don’t want a fucking phone in my face while I’m playing.” The way he says it makes Timmy feel like he means _I don’t want you in my face._

“Sorry.”

Dakota tells Armie to lay off though he doesn’t need someone to defend him from his own boyfriend. Armie shrugs an apology and Timmy votes to the rest of the day out. 

He doesn’t go Wednesday or Thursday of that week, telling Armie that he needs to work on finding a venue for his photobook release even though it’s something that can just as easily be done at the studio.

-

The third week is bad. 

Armie breaks two drumsticks in less than 30 minutes during a really technical-heavy song. He reminds them how much he despises click tracks by breaking another stick and chucking its corpse.

When he goes outside to smoke, Timmy waits his standard half-minute before going after him. The backdoor is barely open when Armie waves him off, and though his face is tight with frustration, his eyes are heavy with remorse. 

“Can you, uh, head out?” He grips the back of his skull, fingers shaping themselves against the bite of his buzzcut. “I don’t think having you here watching me fuck up is working for me.”

Timmy hasn’t even lit up his own cigarette. He looks away from the task of it, eyebrows meeting. “Are you serious?”

“Yeah,” Armie breathes after a pause, the air slicing through teeth that have fastened themselves into his bottom lip. His body language is cagey. Timmy doesn’t want to touch him.

“You don’t want me here?” He can’t help but ask Armie to label this interaction for what it is, needing to hear him say it. He’s stunned, unable to reconcile his imaginings of this metamorphic phase with how it’s actually developed, a photograph he’d been excited for only to realize it’d been taken with expired film. Timmy thought he would get to spectate the entire process, thought Armie wanted him here to share in the huge accomplishment of what Drive Like I Do is doing.

Armie looks at him like he knows he’s being tested. The muscles in his jaw twitch, He stubs out his own, half-eaten smoke. “No, sorry.”

“Whatever.” Timmy snaps, repocketing his paraphernalia and heading back inside. The “Timmy, wait. Please,” sounds weak. It doesn’t even graze him. 

He goes home and then out to a bar, unable to shake the day alone.

-

Hours later, he has a slew of unanswered apology texts but no call. Saoirse is jabbering a mile a minute at his shoulder about her job, and about the latest with her and Greta--they’re on an off cycle again. 

Timmy is pretending to listen, though his performance won’t be nominated for any awards. The shot glasses between his fingers have the lion’s share of his attention.

He thinks about his slowly dwindling bank account. His laundry that has been festering for two weeks. The rent check he needs to write before he incurs a late fee. His boyfriend deserves a punch in the balls. 

“Oi! Slow down, baby boy,” Saorise laughs. “You’ll be hugging the toilet tonight if you keep it up.”

Timmy doesn’t care. He drowns her concern in another mouthful of tequila, hissing through the sting of it. “I’m fine. Tell me about your run-in with Adam Levine at Amoeba. That sounds hilarious.”

His phone buzzes again, and Timmy looks because he’s a masochist. Whatever he’s hoping to find, it isn’t present in this newest text.

Armie:  
I’m not going to make it over tonight. I’m fucking exhausted. I’ll call you first thing tomorrow. I love you.

Timmy’s face must betray his reaction because Saoirse’s crumples in pity for him. “Boyfriend stuff?” she hedges gently.

He rolls his eyes, signaling the bartender for another round. “Never date a musician.”

-

One month into recording, Timmy wakes up to Armie sitting on the side of the bed, smoking in his room. Timmy props up with his elbows and taps his toes against Armie’s bare thighs, right against the thorned roses tattooed into the meat. 

Armie’s chin catches and pulls left but he doesn’t turn all the way around. The air between them is laden with unaired grievances. Armie never apologized for what happened, and it doesn’t feel like he’s ever going to so there’s no point in bringing up his irritable behavior. Except for the fact that keeping in his upset is making Timmy sick. 

“So, have you booked any shoots?” Armie’s question is stiff, prepared. 

“Why?” Timmy retorts, his voice still rusted with sleep. He clears his throat and sits up, bony shoulder blades against the unpainted bedroom wall. 

Armie still doesn’t turn around. “Just thought it’d be good for you if you started working.” There's a small break while he takes a long drag of his cigarette, the sound wet and deep as he holds in the toxic smoke. Then he exhales, “Doing your own thing for a bit. I don’t know.” 

Timmy can read between the lines in his speech. He’s not an idiot. ”You don’t want me at the studio anymore.”

“That’s not--”

It is. “Why? Am I really that much of a distraction?”

Armie closes his fingers around Timmy’s ankle, his touch gentle, like Timmy’s bone might snap if he isn’t careful. “No,” he says, emphatic, turning his head, making eye contact through the haze of the dark. “It’s not you. I just--” His voice fades out but before Timmy can get in another barb, he’s laid down more track for his thoughts to travel on. “I’ve never been so in my head about music before. It’s fucking weird, but I mean, the label is paying for studio time by the hour. I don’t have a job outside of this. It’s, I don’t know.”

“Pressure,” Timmy supplies for him, and Armie nods sagely, chewing at the inside of his cheek. 

Timmy feels it too. He needs to schedule photo shoots, reach out to more galleries to host his book release, make important calls and posts on social media to keep the trajectory of his career on an upward swing. Right now everything feels stagnant, quiet, like he can’t get any momentum behind what he wants to do, but maybe it's just because things between him and Armie have been feeling that way too.

“I’ve wanted this forever. And I’m afraid of losing it--the opportunity. Not just for me, but for Dev and Dakota. I’m not exactly the easiest bandmate…”

He trails off and Timmy feels some of his wounded ego tipping over onto Armie’s plate. That’s not what he wants. Disentangling himself from the blankets, he moves closer, taking Armie’s cigarette from him. “I can’t believe you’re smoking in here,” he laughs. Taking an indulgent drag, he leans over to swipe an empty can of La Croix from his desk and feed the butt into it.

Armie’s expression is thoroughly chastened but Timmy waves off his apology before it’s out. He slinks both arms around Armie’s ribcage, hands circling the other’s wrist, and squeezes. “You’re not going to fuck it up for them, or you,” he exhales, propping his chin against the naked round of Armie’s shoulder, peering up at him.

Armie only looks at him out of the corner of his eye. One arm covers Timmy’s that has snaked over his front. His fingers tap out a twitchy beat against Timmy’s knobby knuckles. “It’s not that I don’t want you there,” he says, eventually, “I don’t want _anyone_ there. I wish I could just lay down my tracks alone, and have everyone else just look at them later.”

“I don’t think it works that way,” Timmy teases, lowering his mouth to nudge his teeth into Armie’s skin. “But I understand. I won’t come by for a while. I need to seriously get moving on my own shit anyway.”

The relief in Armie’s face, at Timmy’s acceptance and his tone, is heartbreaking. It bothers him to realize that he’s been sitting on this for a while. But Armie covers his wounded gaze up quickly, bringing Timmy back down to the mattress with a slow-motion tackle. They land against the pillows and Armie pulls Timmy in by the jaw for a kiss. 

“I love you,” he says, a reminder. 

“You better.”

Armie bites his cheek. “What kind of freelance stuff do you wanna do?” he asks before getting distracted by the warm center of Timmy’s throat. 

Timmy thinks about it. “I’m not sure. I just want to keep my name out there, you know? Build up my portfolio. Maybe I’ll reach out to a few connections Amber and Matty gave me. It seems like between the two they know everybody in the music business.”

Armie pulls back, his lashes dusting away a curious look in his eyes. Timmy prepares for another emotional blast but instead Armie just curls to his side. “You’re a lightning strike, you know.”

His words still singe, but in a way that makes Timmy’s skin sizzle with content. His reflex is to shun the compliment, but he doesn't, asks, “What does that make you?”

“Just a lucky bastard who happened to get caught in the storm.”

-

Saoirse swings him a meeting with Dashboard Confessional that next week, set to play the House of Blues, but he gets the gig on his own merit. Chris loves his black and whites of the 1975 and spends fifteen or twenty minutes scrolling his instagram. 

Timmy also somehow finds himself shooting for an instagram model, most of his day spent waiting for her to change into different outfits and traveling to pre-planned locations. It isn’t the most soul-fulfilling work, but she pays well and he’ll get in a tag in her posts that go out to a cool 12,000,000 followers.

Pale Waves, another artist on the Dirty Hit label, has been in communication regarding a photoshoot for their next album, but nothing’s been finalized.

-

Slowly, while Armie works towards the finish line on recording, he beefs up his contacts and portfolio. It’s some real power couple shit; Timmy just wishes that it felt more like they were following their dreams _together._

-

To celebrate the end of week five, Timmy drinks. It was supposed to be with Armie, but he’s late.

Three hours later, Timmy is still alone and on his way to full inebriation. One beer to pregame has turned into a four-pack of 8% IPA without dinner.

It gets so late that he tells himself he’s not going to answer the phone if Armie calls now, on principle. If he is so singularly focused on getting this album mixed, then great. 

All Timmy was hoping for was the chance to vent, even for just a minute or two, about the opening for his photobook release and what a fucking disaster it’s become. He had spent all this afternoon on the phone with different galleries, but even if they end up wanting to show his work, there’s no way he’s going to be able to secure a date before Armie and his band leave for tour. Which is heartbreaking. 

The thought of standing alone in a suit while strangers clinically peruse his photos is despairing. He almost wants to call the whole thing off except that in the few moments where he’s thinking rationally, he knows it will be worth it in the long run.

Another hour crawls by. Timmy changes into sweatpants and leaves his phone on the kitchen counter, heading outside for a cigarette. His dealer neighbor, Will, is toking up on his porch and Timmy waves.

Will lifts his joint in offering and Timmy pretends to think about it before hurrying over, his socks getting soaked in the midnight drizzle. 

“What’s up?” Timmy asks conversationally once he’s made it over, taking the proffered joint with a little bow, “Thanks.”

They stand together on the shallow porch in front of Will’s door, the space well-lit by a cobweb-splattered wall light. “Just watched the weirdest fucking movie. Needed to chill out for a minute after, you know?”

Timmy nods. “Sure, sure.”

-

By the time he makes it back to his own apartment, he is crossfaded and has two texts waiting for him from Armie. It’s a double text to say that he’s sorry and on his way over. Above the announcement is a one-sided exchange of Timmy asking where he was when the time they were set to hang out blew by.

Deflated despite the substances that he’d hoped would buoy him, Timmy leaves the door unlocked and crawls into bed, his soggy socks stripped off and thrown into the abyss.

He’s halfway to sleep when there’s a knock and then, seconds later, the sound of the front doorknob being turned. Timmy only tucks his face more fully into his crooked arm where he lies on his side facing the wall Any eagerness for seeing Armie tonight has been replaced with a low-grade temper.

There’s movement and rustling before Armie comes over to the bed. He is doing something in the kitchen, cranking on the sink and opening the fridge. When he finally approaches Timmy, he is accompanied by the mouth-watering scent of fast food.

Timmy doesn’t give in to temptation and greet him, however. He remains steadfastly still, eyes roving underneath buttoned lids.

“I know you’re awake,” Armie tells him, the mattress dipping behind Timmy’s back. “And that you’re mad. I’m sorry.”

When Timmy doesn’t budge, Armie’s arm pulls at his shoulder, flattening him onto his back. 

“I brought In-N-Out.” He places a basket of fries in the center of Timmy’s chest, a peace offering. “I put the burger in the fridge but you have to eat the fries now.”

Timmy cracks an eye to glare at him, and at the salt sprinkled over his hoodie. “I’m not a table,” he says.

Armie plucks a fry from the basket and prods the seam of Timmy’s lips with it, trying to be cute. “You can deny me, but you can’t deny a french fry. It’s against your moral code.”

He puts up a fight but in the end, Timmy eats the fucking fries, and when Armie takes his acquiescence as forgiveness he allows Armie to crawl under the blanket and spoon up close. 

“I’m still pissed at you,” Timmy informs him cooly, laying limp while Armie attempts to cuddle. 

A huge hand coasts up under the hem of his hoodie to rest just above his navel. “Can we fight in the morning?” 

Timmy’s high is a low. He just shrugs as best you can while horizontal. “Fine,” he says, his tone openly dissatisfied. 

But Armie doesn’t snag on it. On his end, he must feel content with the way things feel because he mumbles his thanks into the spill of Timmy’s hair against the pillow and immediately falls asleep.

He’s been at the studio all day mixing and is no doubt exhausted, but this behavior is cementing into a pattern. Armie spends twelve hours every day except for Sunday recording, which is fine--he’s living his dream. But while he’s there, and once he’s done, there is so little left of him for Timmy. Their relationship this past five weeks has been chiseled down to missed texts and hastily scheduled lunches and sleeping together where that’s all they do. 

When Timmy looks ahead, he doesn’t see it stopping. He sees recording and then mixing and mastering and then Drive Like I Do leaving for tour. He sees Armie’s world spinning on and Timmy being left behind.

It doesn’t feel new, but it still hurts terribly.

-

The last week of Armie in the studio is more of the rest. Timmy finds himself anticipating when Armie won’t answer his call or will cancel on plans. It doesn’t have the same sting it did at the beginning of the process, but that’s only worrying. Timmy is used to feeling second best.

He doesn’t even ask to go in, or even about how the last days of mixing have been when they do see each other. And a part of him, even though it’s small, will be relieved when it’s over and Armie is gone again. At least then he may miss Timmy and be motivated by that longing to make more of an effort, but Timmy’s starting to have doubts about that too.

He has relationship deja vu.

-

Friday is the last day that Drive Like I Do is booked at Sunset Sound and the day that their single is released.

It’s also Valentine's Day, a fact which seems to slip Armie’s mind altogether, buried beneath more important occasions. 

It’s a dumb holiday anyway, but as the day passes by without any acknowledgment of it, Timmy finds meaning in Armie’s silence.

They don’t talk until after dark. Timmy’s spent the day watching true crime shows in his underwear, keeping his mind as far away from love as he can manage.

“You’ve officially cut an album. Congratulations!” He puts as much enthusiasm into his voice as he can muster.

Armie’s, “Thanks,” doesn’t even come close to meeting it, tired but pleased. “What have you been up to today?”

“Booking a few freelance projects,” Timmy tells him, tracing out his mouth with his tongue, considering. He only brings the topic up so that it doesn’t fester like so many others have, but remains passive in his tone. Casual even. “Dakota sent me a picture of the flowers Jack gave her today. A hundred roses seems overkill, but it’s cute. She was so stoked on them.”

“He’s got it bad, doesn’t he?” Armie huffs. It sounds like he’s getting into his car. When he speaks again, the audio quality has changed. Speakerphone. “What should I get for dinner on my way home?”

Timmy shelves any lingering hope that they might have something together. He can’t quite shelve the disappointment in his voice, however. “Dunno. Everything is going to be pretty booked up tonight.”

“I was talking fast food. I don’t--” He takes a sharp breath. “Do you care about Valentine’s Day?”

Timmy’s, “No,” is quiet and embarrassed and, apparently, half of a lie.

“It’s a bullshit holiday created by--”

“Greeting card companies,” Timmy cuts in. “Spare me.”

Armie doesn’t say anything. Some CD with shitty hardcore music is playing lowly from his car stereo. Timmy can imagine him, expression tight, staring down traffic. He just hopes that Armie is imagining him too, and that he can picture the aggravation he’s wearing right now.

“I was going to see if you still wanted to come over and listen to your new single together but I’m gonna let you go, I think. I’ll talk to you later.”

“Stop,” Armie pleads, breathing out a ragged sigh. Timmy can picture that too, the moment he folds. “I just didn’t know you were a Valentine’s person. Let me make it up to you. Recording is over. I have time again. Can we do dinner tomorrow? Anywhere you want.”

“You don’t want to listen to the single together tonight?”

Armie says, “Let’s do it tomorrow when I’m more than a husk of a person.”

Disappointing, but not surprising. Armie is letting this momentous occasion pass by without cataloging it together.

Even so, Timmy can’t help the way his bad mood floats out of his reach before he’s done with it at the mention of dinner. Armie is lucky he loves him so much. “Fine, but you pick,” he demands after a beat. _Make an effort._

“Deal,” Armie says, sounding like he knows how easy he’s gotten off. “It’ll be nice. We can talk more about it when I get home. Let me call you back, though. I’m getting food right now.”

A muffled voice welcomes him to Wendy’s before asking if he’d like to try their new something or other.

It’s not perfect, but it’s progress. Timmy feels some of the knotted mess inside his chest detangling. His heart thumps to remind him that it’s still in working order. “Okay, I love you. You’re an asshole. Bye.”

Once they’re off the phone, Timmy turns off the heater and his lights and puts on Drive Like I Do’s newly released single, wanting total silence to absorb this moment, even if it’s alone. Ceramic Mermaid is featured in the New Punk Tracks playlist on Spotify.

And it’s fucking gorgeous.

-

Timmy is only working with the information that they’ll be eating somewhere nice for dinner the next day when he’s getting dressed. He has a lot of clothes in his closet, and in his dresser, and piled into his hamper begging to be washed, but almost nothing that fits the vague descriptor of _nice_.

This realization is driven home when Timmy answers the door and unwraps the sight of Armie in his date night attire.

Black blazer, black shirt, oxblood-colored chinos. His hair is freshly buzzed, as is his stubble. There are dark circles under his eyes, but they don’t away from how unbelievably handsome he is.

“What the fuck,” Timmy drops out, staring. When his eyes fall, he sees that Armie is also wearing his Christmas Docs. “I have to change.”

His patterned dress shirt and silk blazer feel silly in comparison. But Armie doesn’t let him disappear back into the apartment to find something else. His long arms snake out around Timmy's middle so that he can drag him in and put lips on his neck. “Fuck off, you look stupid hot. Let’s just order take out and have sex instead of going out.”

Timmy melts a little under the interrogation of Armie’s cologne but manages to shake his head. “No, I wanna go out. Where’d you pick?”

Armie lets him go. “Chateau Marmont.”

“Fuuuck.” He wipes his hand down Armie’s face, playful and horny. “I’m gonna eat my weight in crab cakes.”

“Yeah you are. Get a warmer coat and let’s go.”

Timmy rolls his eyes but steps backward to pull a heavy jacket off a hook by the door and folds it over one arm. “Okayokay but I’m driving.”

-

They never make it to the restaurant.

-

Timmy breaks too hard at the red light on Sunset Blvd. On purpose. 

He smirks when Armie’s phone jerks forward. “What the fuck?”

“Get off your phone,” Timmy says nonchalantly, because it’s obvious that’s the issue here. “We’re on a date, you dick.”

Armie finishes off his email or fucking text or whatever, because apparently he cares about technology now. Hypocrite. Then he looks over and shakes his head, “Yeah, sorry. Just signing off on an email. Band crap.”

Timmy wants to be supportive, he really does. He wants to be a good boyfriend. He wants to be excited about DLID’s upcoming album and tour and this single and the next. And he is, but something cracks inside of him seeing Armie still so consumed after recording has ended and he just can’t take it anymore. 

“It’s always band crap. It’s been band crap for almost two months now, since before I even got back.” Timmy’s fingers gripping the steering wheel make a gross sound. His palms are sweaty. “Stop working and just, I don’t know, be fucking present.”

Something burns up the length of his spine and makes him nauseated when he puts together where he’s bumped against this strain of anger before: this was exactly the kind of shit he used to argue with Ansel about. 

“Settle down,” Armie says and Timmy’s head snaps to the side. “I’m here, aren’t I? Relax.” 

“Wooow,” Timmy gapes, his mouth still wide open once he finishes dragging the word out. “Don’t do me any favors.” He grips the steering wheel harder, his heart pounding, clogged with pent up hurt and frustration. The song changes from Cudi to Frank Ocean and when the light flicks to green, Timmy impulsively makes a right turn, heading opposite of the restaurant. “I’m not hungry anymore.”

Armie lets his head fall back against the headrest and he mutters to himself, loud enough to ensure that Timmy hears him, “I guess we’re doing this now.”

Anger drowns out everything else that’s been welling up inside of Timmy these past weeks. It is more demanding than his despondency. It won’t be pushed aside.

“Yes, we are.” They drive through three green lights before they hit another red. It’s heated silence now as Armie reaches out to swivel the volume knob on the stereo down to 0. “Don’t touch my shit.” 

“I don’t know what the hell your problem is,” Armie says with such sincere, genuine confusion that it serves only to rile Timmy further. Of course he doesn’t fucking know, too preoccupied with his own shit to lift his head and look around every once in a while.

The light turns green and Timmy tells him everything. All at once and out of order, with a mixture of tears and swearing and “don’t fucking cut me off I’m still talking,” and a red light that gets run through after three blocks of word vomit. 

“I know how important music is to you. I get it, okay? But, I feel like all I’m getting of you are the leftovers. Some days it doesn’t even feel like we’re together.” Timmy exhales and before he can filter his final thought, he adds, “I’m not going to be second best to someone’s job. Again.”

Armie’s gaze bites him.

“You know what,” He clicks off his seatbelt so fast the buckle hits the window. The metal on glass makes Timmy’s teeth hurt. “I’m not hanging around to listen to you compare me to that needle-dicked asshole.” 

“Armie—” 

The car door swings open in the middle of traffic and Armie gets out, right in the middle of the street. A few people stuck behind Timmy’s idling car start honking. The door slams shut and Armie takes a moment to flip off the people honking before leaning back in through the open window. “Go find a new victim to try and fuck in a bathroom if you’re so unhappy.”

Timmy’s dazed by what’s happening and by the blow of Armie’s words for a few seconds. His shock and hurt drown out the sound of the SUV pumping its horn behind him. He blinks and tears blur his vision but he doesn’t know whether they are the sad or angry kind. 

He thinks about leaving Armie behind. 

It’s getting dark. The sun has pulled a purple blanket over the sky, and Timmy is stopped at the mouth of an intersection with a green light.

Through his unrolled window, he hears someone call him a braindead bitch. Armie would’ve tried to fight that person if he was still in the car. 

With a mangled sigh, Timmy turns right and follows Armie downhill where he’s stomping away like a fucking gorilla. He thrashes in his seat, hisses, “Fuck!” and inevitably pulls towards the curb. Switching his hazard lights on, he starts creeping after Armie. “Get in the car, you idiot!” 

Armie’s neck twitches but he keeps walking. 

Timmy honks his horn. Nothing. 

He crawls after him for another half block. “Armie, please. I’m fucking — oh shit.” He swerves and to miss a car parked wide at a meter, “I’m sorry, okay!”

When Timmy almost rear-ends a limo pulling out into traffic, Armie’s face collapses and he finally throws himself back inside Timmy’s car. “You’re going to kill someone,” he fumes. He re-buckles in while Timmy flips on his turn signal. The clicking sound is too loud in the tempered silence. Armie sighs, heavy and exhausted. “I’m not Ansel.”

“And you’re not a rebound, so stop acting like it.”

They don’t talk for the rest of the ride home. Timmy doesn’t know what else to say. Hie feelings are out there now; the ball has been volleyed into Armie’s court but it looks like he’s grown tired of the game. 

Timmy should have just quit while he was ahead. Not-Valentines Day is even more of a wreck than the actual holiday. And with Armie looking like this...what a waste.

The subject of where to eat is broached by Timmy once they’re back in his part of town, and Armie just rattles off whatever they’re passing at the moment. They get Taco Bell from the drive-thru and eat in the parking lot.

It isn’t an end-of-the-world argument, but it definitely isn’t growth. Timmy kisses Armie goodbye when they make it back to his place and goes to bed with an unsettled stomach ache he’s grown used to.

-

Things don’t quite level out between him and Armie before Drive Like I Do leaves for tour. There just isn’t enough time between the street fight and them hitting the road. 

The band is busy doing interviews for the single and the tour and Timmy, over sitting on the sidelines, throws himself into freelance projects. “Let me check my calendar,” becomes a staple phrase whenever people want to make plans.

-

The morning before Drive Like I Do are scheduled to take off, Timmy’s giving that exact line to Lily-Rose Depp, who is sweetly jabbering away about how she’s been following his work and that he seems to be doing well since the last time they worked together. She has an interview with Nylon and she was given the go-ahead to invite her own artist to shoot the spread. It’s not cover, but still a big deal. 

“They said we could use the studio on the 21st or, if it’s not too short notice, tomorrow.” 

Timmy is already booked for engagement photos on the 21st. The only thing he has planned for tomorrow is to see Armie off and then play video games and eat himself into a coma with Chinese takeout to avoid being sad. 

This magazine is a huge opportunity, networking wise. Plus, his name would be in print. 

Shitshitshit. 

“What time tomorrow?” Timmy asks before he can talk himself out of it. His heart sags.

Lily-Rose makes a cute, happy sound that makes him feel guilty and miserable and really fucking excited underneath it all. She tells him one o’clock and he tells her, “See you then.”

-

Armie is exactly as understanding as Timmy’s come to expect when he calls to break the news. “It’s cool,” he says in a tone that means it isn’t but he doesn’t have any right to argue. “I’m happy for you. Nylon, That’s crazy.” 

Timmy half-smiles. “Yeah...that’s why I— Armie, you know I want to kiss you goodbye and shit.” He does. “I just can’t turn this down.” He can’t. And if there’s a little vengeful satisfaction in being the one that’s too busy for once, that can’t be helped.

Armie grunts his affirmation. Then, “Is this that one chick that wanted your phone number, who you said was cute?” Timmy barely remembers and he really doesn’t want to fight. He fakes it. 

“I don’t kn—”

“It’s cool,” Armie repeats though there’s something layered under his acceptance. Timmy hasn’t heard it in months; faux indifference. “I have to finish up practice and run through some DLID shit with Kota and Dev. Call you later?”

Timmy takes a shaky breath. Suddenly, he doesn’t want this to be the way they say goodbye. He panics, scrabbling for something else to fix this. Maybe he should cancel. Surely Lily-Rose could fit him in another time. 

It’s too late. He can’t think of anything to say except for, “Sure,” and then the call is dead.

-

February 19th, the day that DLID embark on their tour supporting T.M.F.U. and Timmy shoots Lily-Rose for Nylon becomes a battle of willpower. 

It starts while Timmy is wincing through his morning cup of orange juice after brushing his teeth. Every part of him is hyper-aware of the time, of the minutes ticking down to Armie’s dot on the map fleeing from his own. He flips through every app on his phone, aborting a few games halfway through, opening and closing his message inbox. 

Nothing from Armie. 

He hadn’t called last night, either, allowed Timmy’s sadness and longing to fester overnight into self-righteous stubbornness, He isn’t going to be the one to reach out, doesn’t think he’s done anything wrong in taking this job offer. Armie of all people should understand the importance of putting work first sometimes; he’s going to have to stop acting like a prick and make the first move this time. 

His phone rings while he’s driving to the photoshoot, and Dakota calls him an ass when his disappointment meets the air, “Oh, it’s you.” She doesn’t say so directly but he can hear it in her voice that she has an idea of the unrest going on between him and Armie. Part of him wonders if that’s why she’s calling — to check in on his behalf. Coward. 

She’d heard about his Nylon gig through the grapevine. “I’m so proud of you, babe. You’re going to kill it today.” Dakota makes wet kissing sounds through the phone and Timmy’s tickled, but he still wishes it was Armie on the line. 

“This time next year, I’ll be shooting you for the cover,” Timmy suggests optimistically. Actually, it’s terrifying to think that far ahead, when he can’t even predict what might go down two weeks from now.

He wishes Dakota good luck, tells her he’s proud of her too, as though he hasn’t been a broken record about her talent, and when he says “Give everyone a hug from me,” Timmy knows she understands his meaning.

-

During the shoot, he is constantly tapping his phone to check for messages until Lily-Rose, in her pretty pink smile, asks him, “Weren’t you having boy troubles the last time we saw each other?” 

Message received.

Timmy puts his phone away. It’s unprofessional to be this needy.

-

By the time they wrap and Timmy stops to pick up some Silver Dragon for dinner, Drive Like I Do is probably in Phoenix. Timmy can feel the distance, made even more real with Armie’s continued silence. If he was this upset about the prospect of not being able to say goodbye, he could have said so. Leaving Timmy to rethink his decision all day--when it was Armie who wanted him to find work--is cruel.

He wants to reach out, to erase this feeling with the reassurance of a text. Any form of communication that will free Timmy from this guilt.

-

He doesn’t text Armie. He’s strong in that regard.

Back at home with his empty takeout boxes and Netflix, while Drive Like I Do is on stage performing their first set of the tour, Timmy calls Matty instead.

While it’s ringing, his thumb slips and the FaceTime jingle starts up. Matty’s face livens up his screen before he can cancel the request.

“What a lovely surprise,” Matty grins, looking freshly showered against a bright, blown-out backdrop. 

Timmy is suddenly all too aware that he’s not wearing a shirt, his own hair a reckless storm of tangled curls on the pillow underneath his head. Fuck. He scrambles to sit up, the phone undoubtedly giving Matty a blurred snapshot of his chest, blankets, messy floor, kitchen in the distance; he should wash the dishes that have been asexually reproducing in the sink.

“Shit, goddamnit, sorry! One sec!” He hooks a random shirt from the floor and doesn’t realize that he’s put it on inside out and backward until the tag tickles his chin. “I didn’t mean to FaceTime, sorry.” He turns the shirt around but leaves it inside out. 

Matty is still smiling, all sweet and knowing as always. It’s annoying, but Timmy also finds he’s missed it. Matty never asks him to explain himself, always accepting of him at face value. “Ouch. You sure know how to make a boy feel special.” Even his teasing sounds soft. 

Timmy flushes and shakes his head. “No, I mean. I--” He sighs, realizing there’s no way to retract his admission. So he just blabbers another. “I missed your face.”

Matty looks careful for a moment but nods, accepting the dangerous sentiment with grace. “Missed yours too, T. How are you?”

Timmy doesn’t even consider lying about it. “Shit’s weird,” he says, and it’s relieving to say so out loud instead of stewing in silence for once. The two empty beer cans on his desk dull any sense of guilt. “Everything is changing.”

“Everything is always changing.”

“You know what I mean,” Timmy grins, eyes rolling.

“Yeah. So, what’s the latest on your book release? I still want a copy.”

Timmy wilts, shoulders sagging. He drags a hand through his hair. “I booked a spot for the opening--”

“That’s brilliant!”

“But Armie won’t be able to come. He’ll still be on tour. I couldn’t get anything earlier.”

Matty had the camera flipped towards his concrete floor but he flips it back now to show Matty’s face looking down the barrel of his camera. “What’s it for?”

“March 4th. At a gallery in WeHo. I’m not even excited about it, it’s like. I wish I could scrap the whole thing.”

“March 4th?” Matty repeats, his eyes looking off-camera and up, expression faraway like he’s doing some mental math. When he stares into the screen again, it’s with a quirked smile. “I’ll be in Los Angeles that week,” he says. “I have a few meetings there, me and George are going. Maybe we could stop in?”

The casual air of his suggestion is for Timmy’s benefit. He’s offering without any added pressure, letting Timmy know that no matter his thoughts on it, that Matty won’t take offense. Such courtesy has been absent lately and Timmy finds a knot in his throat the next time he tries swallowing.

He wonders why Matty hadn’t told him about these L.A. plans before now; wouldn’t he want to hang out? It’s immaterial. He doesn’t question it. “Are you serious?”

“Deadly,” Matty smirks. “I’m gagging to see your work in person.” _And you,_ he doesn’t say. It’s implied.

The clusterfuck of bad feelings that has taken up residence in Timmy’s chest cavity since he’s been back in L.A. thaws. The thorns that have been pressed in lose their edge. “Fuck, thank you. That’d be amazing.”

“I’ve got you, T.” It’s a sentiment that Matty has used a thousand times in the past, whenever Timmy found himself drifting away or bogged down by life. By Armie. For a second, Matty’s voice feels like a stroke of fingers across his cheek, like red wine and thrift stores, like the cool air-con that ran constantly in Matty’s studio while they had lounged around and made out. Matty never made him feel unwanted, even now, as just friends. 

Watching Matty getting ready for the day while Timmy’s winds down, he knows that there’s a line here.

He changes the subject and they quickly fall into well-worn conversations; politics and emotional turmoil, the state of the world, new music, instagram. Timmy talks about his Nana and Matty quotes a profound poem about grief that has Timmy sniffling by the end of it. 

Matty is showing him his latest vintage t-shirt gets when another Facetime call interrupts their good time. 

It’s Dakota. One degree of separation from who he wants, again.

“Oh shit, I better take this. Talk soon?”

Matty is already packing in his enthusiasm for the call, the image of him swinging out of view. “Defo. Bye, T.”

Timmy answers, residual joy from Matty bolstering his mood. “Hey!”

The picture is only of Dakota for a second, lit poorly, her forehead shining, the sky behind her pitch black and starless. “Look at this shit, Timmy--fuck, hold on,” she says, sounding winded. She fumbles, the image blurred, the sound cacophonous, and then the camera flips. 

Armie cuts into view. He is breathing with his mouth open and eyes closed, his head tipped heavenward. Blood is pouring freely from both nostrils. 

“Look at your fucking boyfriend,” Dakota seethes, shaking her hand, and the picture. 

Armie’s eyes open, on her phone and then slashing upwards, off-screen, to fix angrily on Dakota. “Why did you call him?” 

Timmy feels sick. His hands are numb. It’s difficult to talk over Dakota telling Armie that, “Yeah, I called him. Because you’re an idiot and I didn’t know how else to deal with you.”

The camera doesn’t flip again but she turns the phone then to address Timmy directly. “Some pervert at the barricade was trying to take upskirts of me with a selfie stick. Armie fully dragged him over the barrier and beat the shit out of him. FIfty people must have taken a video of it happening.”

“Fucking degenerate,” Armie spits. The screen re-focuses and Timmy gets to see him at a dutch angle, a body shot of black shorts and a white t-shirt, the collar stained a glossy red-orange-brown. 

“He’s going to sue us. You know that,” Dakota retorts, and Timmy forces their attention with a shout. “It’s going to be online. The label will be furious.”

“Hey! I’m still here,” Timmy reminds her. The image of Armie levels out, his head coming into view. He turns to look at the camera, still punching out air, but with a forced calm, his jaw unhinged. “Dakota, I’m glad you called. Can you give Armie the phone?”

Dakota groans. “Sure thing.” The phone changes hands, Dakota’s finger reaching into view to flip the camera back. The new shot of Armie that Timmy is greeted with is a closeup. It showcases the blood on his mouth, on his teeth.

“I don’t want to hear it,” Armie sighs, licking over his grimace. “You look good.”

Timmy shakes his head. “You look like shit.” Without realizing, he’s gotten up and is pacing the length of floor in front of his bed. “Jesus, Armie. What the hell is wrong with you? How are you gonna do this shit at your _first_ show?”

Armie looks off screen and nods, and Timmy hears Dakota mumble something about getting ice and water to clean Armie’s fucked up face. Timmy feels his chest tighten. He’s half ready to burst out the door and climb into his car. How long is the drive to Phoenix? 

“You’re real cute when you’re pissed,” Armie says with a slipper smirk. He leans over every so often to spit blood and saliva. Timmy’s eyes narrow. 

“Do you even want to come home?” God, what he wouldn’t do to exchange this new, searing anger for the familiar, low simmer of being ignored.

Armie swipes the side of his wrist over his mouth, dragging blood across his cheek. The camera tilts when he leans forward. “That’s a stupid question.” Timmy only stares harder into the phone, both brows lifting to his hairline.

“Yeah, well, you’re being stupid right now.” Timmy halts and bends his neck, his long curls curtaining over his face as he stares down his phone. “This distance is bad enough, Armie. Fuck--now I have to worry about you ending up in the hospital or, fucking, _jail_ too?”

“Dakota’s being dramatic,” Armie says, which Timmy knows is his indirect way of saying _he_ is, too. 

“Remember when you were talking about not wanting to fuck things up?” Timmy says, his eyebrows pointedly raised.

Armie covers his face with one hand, the phone camera falling towards a fluorescent lamp post. He doesn’t say anything for a second. Timmy sits back down.

“Things haven’t been good,” he says gently.

Armie’s voice is equally docile. “I know.”

“You’re too stressed out. You need to pull back.”

“I know.”

Timmy can’t decipher whether Armie’s really taking in what he’s saying or just aiming to placate him while he spins out. “I wish you would have called me earlier, or last night. Not hearing from you made me feel like shit. The Nylon shoot was important to me.”

“I know,” Armie says again, but before Timmy can accuse him of not listening, he continues, “I guess I was just bummed out. I wanted to see you before I left, thought that it would somehow make up for how shitty things have been.”

Somehow, Timmy is consoling him about their rough patch instead of the other way around; apparently he wasn’t the only one feeling it. “Well, we’re never going to get better if you wind up in a penitentiary. So please, pick your battles.”

Armie doesn’t say _I know_, but when the camera whooshes back to his face, Timmy can tell that he wants to.

“And be nice to me,” Timmy adds, “you’ve been a real asshole lately. You’re allowed to be mean to everyone else, but not to me. Got it?”

“Got it,” Armie nods, a smile tugging at the corners of his mouth. The left side looks raw. “I should probably go inside, but can I call you when we’re back on the bus? I want to hear about the Nylon gig.”

The knotted mass inside of Timmy is still there, but it isn’t pressing. “You better,” he warns, “I wish I was there to play doctor but you’re in capable hands with MD Johnson.”

Armie winces. “Ow. Don’t make me laugh.” He gets up but the camera stays on his face. It’s a mess, but underneath it all, still handsome as a heart attack.

Timmy lays himself down in bed, holding the phone over his head so Armie can get a good look of him settled against his pillow. “That’s what you get,” he grins. “Now go clean up.”

“I love you,” Armie says, pausing to rake blood off of his upper lip. “I fucking miss you already.”

Timmy can almost taste it, subconsciously sweeping his own mouth for remnants of the metallic tang. He takes a screenshot of them talking and a long, deep breath. “I know."


	6. TOOTIMETOOTIMETOOTIME

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> we missed you! thanks for stickin' around. we love this story and are so happy to be back in it. 
> 
> maybe you're dreaming you're in love with me has reached over 10k hits and we are so grateful for every single one of them. thank you.
> 
> happy 24th birthday, timmy!
> 
> \- oyb & cpx

There is a boy up against the barricade that reminds him of Timmy. Logically, Armie knows that he isn’t here, is either shooting photos for a client or out with friends back in Los Angeles, but definitely not swayed by the crowd at his back and gaping up at Dakota in Boise, Idaho. Even so, Armie finds himself distracted once his eyes first snag.

He has long, dark curls and a pointed face, and even though his smile is all wrong and his outfit makes too much sense to be a concoction of Timmy’s, he stirs up a debilitating ache of homesickness.

Armie falters on the drums, again and again, stumbling through intros, missing his queue. Dakota whips her body around like a spinning top at the front of the stage, but Armie doesn’t miss the _what the hell_ in her gaze.

At some point, the boy gets pulled back into the crowd and Armie gets his act together enough to make it through the remainder of their set. When it’s over he wants to phone Timmy immediately but is called away again and again. The tour manager needs to speak with him about a problem they’re having with the venue in Grand Rapids. One of the roadies wants him to test a new snare before they switch out the old one on his kit; something deeper, with a bigger sound. Armie smashes against it once or twice before making a flippant choice to keep the one he has. A crowd of fans have gathered near the back exit to take photos and ask for sweaty hugs and signatures. He blankfaces almost every photo, splits a forced smile or two in the others.

Then he’s out back by the bus, finally away from anyone who might want his time. Only then Dakota pops out from behind the heavy metal stage door, waving him over with her phone. “Say hi to Jack,” she calls out.

Armie struggles to keep his cool--he just wants to speak with Timmy. Unpacking a cigarette and lighting it in the paces it takes to get from the bus to Dakota, he motions for the phone. “Give it.”

She presses it into his hand and he lifts it to his ear. The screen is damp with Dakota’s sweat, despite the cold. “What’s up, asshole?”

“You’re going to have to take me on tour next time,” Jack says, his accent sounding slippery despite it being three hours earlier in LA. “I’m lost without you.”

“Yeah sure, it’s me you’re lost without. Not that high-maintenance girlfriend of yours.”

Jack laughs. “Don’t be jealous. I miss my girlfriend, _and_ my boyfriend. Come back already.”

“It’s been a week,” Armie tells him, pretending that it doesn’t feel like longer. He spins the cigarette against his lips, eyes narrowing as his throat burns with relief. Dakota is dancing off in the distance with a few creepy fans that have lurked over to the bus. Armie sees the same boy from the crowd. His chest aches.

“A longass week. Are you going to make it through, being away from Tim again an’ all?” Jack asks, dramatic, probably sat on their couch with a six pack on the next cushion and a movie lighting up the room. “He’s way too good for you, by the way.”

Armie coughs out a laugh. “Don’t tell him that.”

“I would never. I did tell him I’d try to hit up his show next week, though. Unless I can’t swing it with my friend getting into town.”

“That’d be cool if you could.” Armie hates that he feels jealous about Jack’s proximity to Timmy. What he wouldn’t give to trade places. His fingers itch to be holding something more potent, but his vape is on the bus. He searches for something to push the conversation forward, because he does miss Jack, but right now it’s useless. “Hey. Speaking of, I need to call him. I’ll be up late, if you want to talk later.”

Jack doesn’t sound secretly put out when he tells Armie, “No worries, give me back to my moth,” and Armie whistles for Dakota, motions her over. She flips him off but smiles, saying a chaste goodbye to the fans before making her way over.

“We’ll go out for drinks when I’m home. Later, man.”

Jack’s goodbye meets the cold air instead of Armie’s ear. He’s already giving the phone back and gesturing that if anyone needs him, he’ll be on the bus.

It is blessedly empty when Armie steps on board. He makes his way past the stacked bunks to the very back where there is a queen-size mattress and kicks off his checkered Vans and black denim jacket before climbing in. Dakota, Dev, and Armie switch off who gets to sleep here, and even though it’s Dev’s turn tonight, he’ll likely be out for another hour or so.

Each drone of the phone ringing is excruciating. Armie stares up into the pervy mirrored ceiling and twists his spine, working out some of the tension that’d been imbued during their set.

Timmy doesn’t answer on the first try, and despite the stubborn ache that urges him to stop there, let Timmy call _him_ back, Armie swallows it down, along with his pride. He calls again, busying himself with a few unhealthy scenarios for why Timmy might not be answering.

But then he does. “Were your ears burning?”

Armie audibly exhales in relief. “What are you talking about?” he asks, wanting Timmy to keep talking, the sound of his voice an instant salve. Noticing a half-empty water bottle on the stand next to the bed, Armie reaches for it, twisting off the cap and pouring in a mouthful.

“I was just talking about you. I’m out with a few people I met at the shoot today.” He seems happy. Good.

“Where at?” Armie closes his eyes, ready to paint images of Timmy splattered all over downtown Los Angeles, or wherever he might be tonight.

“Pour House.”

Armie’s stomach knots. Pour House is where they ran into each other, way back when Timmy was still dating Ansel, when they’d made out foolishly before Timmy stormed off.

Armie stretches against the sheets, still sweaty, his mesh t-shirt clinging and bouncing back. Dev is going to be so pissed. “That’s cool.”

“Yeah. How was the show tonight? Where are you again?” The energy in his voice is good. It means that, despite their fragile structure lately, Timmy isn’t suffering horribly tonight. Armie should probably take Timmy’s cue and batten down his own misery so that he can start enjoying his night too.

“Boise,” Armie tells him, draining the rest of the water bottle and tossing it out onto the floor between the bunks. It spins and settles against a wall.

There is a mid-tempo roar of sound behind Timmy’s voice. Other people in the bar. “Idaho? Nice. I’ve never been.”

“You’re not missing much,” Armie says, which isn’t exactly fair. He hasn’t seen enough to judge, his only experience of the city being from the tour bus and then at tonight’s venue. Timmy laughs at something someone in his party has said and Armie sucks in a breath. “Hey, I’m gonna let you get back to your friends. I’ll call you tomorrow.”

“Armie, wait!”

Armie waits, looking up at himself starfished out in bed. He imagines the lithe shape of Timmy on top of him, cutting him off at the waist, narrow thighs hugging his hips while Timmy’s mouth burns a trail down his throat.

The background buzz shuffles loudly, Timmy’s breathing all that can rise above it. After fifteen or thirty seconds, his voice sifts back through the phone, unobstructed by the goings on of the bar. “I went outside, sorry,” he says, a little out of breath. “Are you okay?”

Armie feels bad. He didn’t want to ruin Timmy’s night. “I’m fine."

“Liar, you’re not fine,” Timmy argues, “what’s wrong?”

His voice doesn’t have permission to waver at the end of his, “I just miss you,” but it does. He’s thinking back to the short time before their relationship was shaped like this, to their strife being so much smaller. November was normal. It felt like new love was supposed to. Blinding happiness and arguments about things like whose apartment they were going to sleep at, Timmy eating too fucking loud, or that the lines of coke Armie’d cut were too thick.

Distance has magnified everything.

Timmy puffs air against his ear from 900 miles away. “I miss you so much,” he rushes out quietly, any of the buoyancy in his previous tone sunken. “I hate you not being here. I heard your single on a spotify playlist today and started fucking crying during my shoot, it was embarrassing.”

The commiseration doesn’t make Armie feel any better. He throws an arm over his eyes to smother his reflection. “There was this boy tonight…”

Timmy takes a sharp breath.

“He was in the front row and he just. I don’t know. Reminded me of you I guess.”

Silence.

Armie blinks against the inside of his elbow, eyelashes rustling. “Don’t worry, you’re much prettier,” he adds.

Timmy takes another long breath, only this one sounds wet. “Come home,” he whispers shakily, “I don’t want you to be gone anymore. I want things to go back to how they used to be.”

“I want to,” Armie gentles, his heart squeezing as Timmy sniffles on the other end of the line. He almost wishes they were fighting, like they have been so often lately. Instead, he can perfectly picture where Timmy is, back against the brick wall, eyes rimmed pink and eyelashes threatening tears. Armie wants to kiss the pout off his lips, fuck the sadness right out of him. “I didn’t mean to shit all over your night out with friends.”

“I’m only out to distract myself,” Timmy says, “I’m going insane, last time wasn’t this bad. I don’t know what it is but it’s like -- shit, LA feels pointless without you here. It’s lost all appeal. I just stay at home when I’m not out for a project, trying to sleep through the days until you’re back.”

Someone opens the door to the bus then, calling his name. Armie answers gruffly to confirm that he’s there and they fuck off, closing it again. He presses the phone more firmly to his ear and turns up onto his side. “It’s been one week. Three more and I’ll be home,” he says, to Timmy and himself. Their tours were too close together, and Armie squashed the six weeks they had together at the studio.

“Yeah…” Timmy agrees, despondent.

Armie wets his mouth, pressing his eyes shut to quell the threatening sting of tears. “Are you outside?”

“Mhm.”

“Where you jumped me?”

That earns him a little hiccup of laughter. “Uh huh.”

“You were such a dick,” Armie says.

Timmy sputters. “Don’t make me laugh! I’m all snotty.”

“Hot.”

“Shut up.”

“I can’t believe you blueballed me like that.” Nostalgic, he palms himself. It’s a wonder that things ever settled between them. Timmy wanted everything and Armie was determined to want nothing. Only together, and with time, were they able to bridge the divide.

Once Timmy’s calmed down again, they talk for a few more minutes, and then Armie gets off the phone, needing to shower before Dev catches him red-handed and wanting Timmy to refind some joy in the night.

Later, clean and folded into his bunk, he pulls out his phone and opens his calendar app, counting down the days until he’s back home and mentally crossing off today. After this tour ends, neither he nor Timmy have set plans to leave Los Angeles again. They will be afforded the time to experience life as a regular couple again. They will mend the tears that this breakneck schedule has wrought.

This is only temporary.

-

The next week of tour blurs by.

TMFU are a popular indie, grunge-punk band from Europe and touring with them is hard on his stamina. Partying on the daily isn’t unknown to Drive Like I Do, but Elizabeth, Henry, and Alicia take the title of being rockstars to a cliched level. Armie finds it hard to keep a balance with the responsibility of his own band’s popularity, bonding with TMFU--sometimes until five in the morning-- and Timmy.

He becomes particularly close with Henry, English and terrible in just the way that Armie is drawn too. Henry is hot-headed and wild and always a good time. He wants to arm wrestle with Armie at lunch and do pills with him after dinner. While in the first week there is some moderation in their shenanigans, by the end of the second Henry is pranking Armie while he is in the shower and challenging him to drinking contests after shows.

On more than one occasion, it gets out of hand. Which means unbearable hangovers and missed calls from Timmy, morning arguments that Armie can’t hold his own during because of the jackhammering at the back of his skull.

These frequent fights have begun boring a hole into Armie, leaving him uncertain about his life’s trajectory. Music is what he wants, touring is what he wants, but figuring out how and where his relationship with Timmy fits in has been playing in the background of every single tear-filled phone call they’ve shared.

Sometimes once they’ve finished fighting though Timmy will send Armie pictures of himself and they’ll jerk off together over the phone if Armie can find some privacy. Or they’ll fall into a stream of conversation that will keep them on the phone for hours. Reminders that it isn’t all angst, that there’s a reason he’s gotten himself into the mess of being in love with this person like no one else before.

Two weeks down, two to go.

-

“I fucking hate that I won’t be there.”

Timmy’s quiet, “me too,” is probably meant to spare Armie, most of his emotions about spending the opening reception for his photo book alone dammed up at the moment. (Three days ago they had flooded their nightly call, leaving Timmy hiccuping on the other end of the line and Armie wanting to cancel their show to trade nine hours in a plane for three hours with him on the West Coast.)

In an effort to kill time, Armie’s been drifting around on a scuffed up skateboard he’d borrowed from one of their crew members. “What are you going to wear?” It’s 8:00 PM in Ohio and only 5:00 PM at home in Los Angeles. Timmy still has an hour before his event.

Armie’s phone buzzes with an incoming photo and Timmy orders him to look at it while he’s still on the line, undoubtedly itching for a reaction. Pulling the phone away from his ear, Armie opens their message thread, ignoring the passive-aggressive texts from the night before when he was high with Henry and hadn’t felt his phone ringing. He blinks a few times to process the image, a little disappointed when he catches fabric laid out on messy blankets instead of a mirror selfie featuring Timmy’s crooked smile. Armie’s shoes skid against gravel and sleet as he comes to an abrupt stop.

First impression: “It’s green.” Armie takes another moment to absorb the classic, cropped suit. No print. No unconventional fabrics. It’d seem boring, exceptionally un-Timmy, if it weren’t so tapered and so emerald. Still, Armie aches knowing how fucking pretty he’s going to look in it, wants to punch something because he won’t be there to see it in action.

Timmy’s anxious, “Well? What do you think?” is far away.

Armie brings the phone back up to his ear, kicks off the ground to start skating again and briefly closes his eyes in an effort to shut any longing out of his voice; his feelings are the last thing Timmy needs to be worrying about on his big night. He leans to the left to circle his board into a pointless circle and sighs, “I think it’s a real shame that I won’t be there to ruin you in it later.”

“I’ll send another pic once I have it on,” Timmy promises. The call hovers in tense silence, a careful balancing act that they’ve struggled with lately. Timmy must sense the shift, tries to swing them back toward calmer waters. “Oh, I forgot to tell you. I saw Jack at Bueller’s this afternoon. He was wearing one of Dakota’s scrunchies.” Armie barks a sudden laugh. He can picture it all too clearly -- Jack at their go-to bagel shop, weeping into an onion and chive. “On his wrist, but still. I think he misses her almost as much as you.”

“Very funny.” Armie doesn’t miss the strangeness in Timmy’s tone, a strand of jealousy that is as unwarranted as it is stubborn. “Did he say if he’d be able to make your show?”

Timmy’s words cut out as two members from TMFU walk out into the back lot. Everyone’s been drinking since lunch but he’d privately made a promise that he wouldn’t tie one on tonight. Ruining Timmy’s evening because he’s too blitzed to answer his phone again is the last thing he wants to do.

“What’d you say?” Armie asks for clarification, skating further down the empty parking lot to get some distance from the noise. Timmy’s voice sounds clipped when he can hear it again.

“Jack said he can’t make it. Something about picking up a friend at the airport.”

“Fuck,” Armie sighs, guilt creeping into his veins now that he officially has no connections to anyone that will be in attendance at Timmy’s show. “That shithead. I’ll call him and chew his ass out,” he offers.

“Don’t,” Timmy asserts. “It’s cool. He has to pick up his friend.” Armie is ready to interject but when Timmy tells him firmly, “Seriously, Armie. Don’t,” he decides to back off. Maybe Jack being there would be a reminder of how he isn’t and if Timmy doesn’t want that, it’s valid.

“Well, Jack’s a tool anyway. You don’t want him classing down the joint.” Timmy’s laugh is sullen. Armie kicks at the cold, slushy ground that’s still partially covered in dirty snow. “For real. He’d just weird everyone out by getting drunk and rambling on about some Japanese arthouse film, then you’d be a freak by association.”

“You’re dumb.” Timmy is wearing a sad smile, Armie can hear it. He feels one pulling at the corners of his own mouth. “I have to get ready.”

“Okay.”

“I’ll send that picture.”

“Make sure your dick’s out in it.”

Timmy’s laugh is almost enough to ease the ache in his gut. “Fucking pervert.”

-

Despite Armie feeling his separation from Timmy like a stitch in his side tonight, Drive Like I Do plays well. They sell a good amount of t-shirts, even signing a few, and after TMFU’s set is over everyone migrates to a bar that Yelp promises has strong drinks and no cover.

It’s dimly lit and crowded, the classic rock crackling through the overhead speakers barely recognizable above the midnight chatter in the long, narrow space. Dakota and Dev showered but Armie only changed, trading mesh and nylon for his usual all-black uniform. The idea of putting on a jacket after sweating his balls off on stage is repugnant but it’s snowing and he isn’t trying to get so drunk that the cold won’t matter.

Turns out that Cleveland in March is brutal. Armie misses palm trees and sun, and Timmy in a sweatshirt and shorts.

Henry buys first round for all three bands on tonight’s bill once everyone is present. It’s clear, however, that he’s gotten a head start, already well into his nightly mission to get wasted. His glass careens into Armie’s amiably. “How’s it hanging, Hammer?”

“About 9 inches and to the left.” Armie throws back his beer, his voice monotone and cold. He needs to give the alcohol a chance to warm his mood.

Henry smacks him on the back, shouting a laugh, “That’s terrifying,” and Armie snarls back a smile to be a good sport. He gulps down the rest of his beer before motioning to the bartender for another, needing to numb the nagging bitterness of being away from Timmy on his big night.

Dev materializes at Armie’s side a moment later and the three of them devolve into shop talk, working out what to do about the venue in Grand Rapids. Henry is sure that another round will help them think, but by the end of it Armie is cutting through the bar to take a piss and then brave the elements to smoke.

The back patio is covered but freezing, snow flurrying through wide angles of light, settling onto the lid of a barbecue that must be used during summers. The slice of cold against his face wakes him up, shaving off a little of his sourness, replacing it with contempt for the weather. Fuck Ohio.

Checking that he hasn’t missed a call or text, Armie lights up, feeding his lighter back into his front pocket when the door to inside swings open and Dakota joins him.

She’s wearing a tan puffy coat with a faux fur collar and a look on her face that Armie recognizes instantly. He grips his cigarette between his lips to hold out his fingers in an X before she can come any closer (although a crucifix might be more effective). “I’m not watching another goddamn TikTok, Kota.” He really fucking hates the internet. Nothing good ever comes from it, everyone needs to get a life. Dakota hesitates, phone cradled against the cream knit of her sweater. “You and Timmy, I swear.”

It’s useless; Dakota doesn’t relent. She takes a definitive step forward, right into his plume of smoke.

“Armie,” she says, and her voice comes out too soft. It sets off alarm bells in the back of Armie’s mind and memories flash by in a montage of misery. It was in this same tone that she’d told him her family dog was hit by a car, and that they’d have to cancel a West Coast tour after high school because Dev had appendicitis, and that they worked better as friends.

It means bad news. This isn’t about some stupid viral video.

Armie forces air in and out of his lungs while she says, “Do not get mad at me,” which guarantees that he absolutely will. Without waiting for him to lie that he’ll be nice, she draws her phone away from her chest and holds it out to him. Eyeing her warily, he plucks it out of her grip and looks down.

“What the hell am I looking at?” Armie leans forward, instantly irritated by the Instagram format he’s been presented with--it reminds him of Timmy’s promised photo wearing the suit that never came.

He scans the screen and feels his stomach warm at the not-so-subtle splash of green that is Timmy smiling. He looks _good._ But that heat turns ice cold when the rest of the picture comes into focus. Standing right next to him, wearing a matching smile that’s all teeth and tenderness is Matty fucking Healy.

Armie’s vision blurs, his fingers curling around the phone. He shuts his eyes. “Why are you showing me this?”

Dakota’s never been afraid of him and she doesn’t back away now, red lips flattened into a straight line of concern. “Did you know Matty was going to be at Timmy’s show tonight?”

Armie takes an aggressive drag from his cigarette, pulling long enough on it that the paper crackles as he pulls filth into his lungs. His eyes water from the harshness of the menthol but he keeps his gaze steady on Dakota. He exhales and passes her phone back, his voice pure condescension when he tells her, “Sure. I knew that that short English twat was going to be there with him on his big night--” Armie barely breathes out all of the smoke before he’s sucking in more, “because, why the fuck wouldn’t he be.” He stares out into the distance, jealousy and anger clouding his line of vision. Everything is black except the snow.

“Jesus, Armie,” Dakota huffs. “Don’t be an asshole. I’m just trying to...”

“Just trying to what?” His head turns, patronizingly slow. Dakota squares her shoulders and steps closer, narrowing her eyes in a way that would make even the bravest, wisest of men cower. Armie has never claimed to be either of those things. He challenges her.

“I just thought you should know, okay.” She snatches the stub of his cigarette from his fingers and sucks the rest down herself. “You obviously had no goddamn clue, or you wouldn’t be acting like such a little bitch.”

Armie scowls and shakes his head. He’s reeling but knows that it isn’t Dakota who deserves the brunt of his frustration. “You kiss your mother with that mouth?” he asks in a pathetic attempt to ease the tension.

Dakota rolls her eyes. “No, but I suck Jack’s dick with it.” Armie winces and she laughs, bittersweet and full of pity for him. “Now go call Timmy and sort your shit out. I’m sure it’s nothing shady.”

He flips her off and dials Timmy’s number, pacing down the deserted patio in the opposite direction of the door. Dakota slips back inside and the call goes to voicemail. Armie hangs up to try again.

No answer. It’s after nine o’ clock on the west coast. Timmy’s show should be over. Each animated spiel of his answering message coils Armie’s irritation tighter. On the fourth or fifth rejection, he leaves a clipped, “Call me,” before sending a matching text. Then he stalks back inside before his fingers go numb.

The rambunctious murmur of the bar that he’d found welcoming when DLID first walked in sounds cacophonous now. Like nails on a chalkboard. It sets his teeth on edge. He finds Henry and Elizabeth belly up to the bar with their manager, Hugh. A row of shots has been strung out in front of them and when Armie lifts a finger to the bartender, another glass is added to the lineup. Everyone throws back in unison, happy to have Armie join them, but it’s only he and Henry who dive straight into another round.

Armie’s anger has a heartbeat. It rages inside of him despite his efforts to drown it. A hundred reasons for the photo Dakota showed him are spiraling through his mind, each worse than the last. The best he can hope for is that Timmy didn’t know, that Matty surprised him to help move more books as the main figure in most of the photos.

But why isn’t he answering his fucking phone?

Armie’s phone antagonizes him from where it’s laying flat against the dirty bar top and he spends the entirety of an old 90’s buttrock anthem contemplating just how much dignity he has left and whether it’s enough to stop himself calling Timmy, again. It’s like the world has shifted, an ache of resentment flowing through Armie’s veins when he realizes that in their usual arguments, it’s Timmy that’s blowing up his unanswered phone. Armie never asked for any of this. It’s gross, to care this much.

The fourth shot of whiskey feels more like it’s burning a hole through Armie’s stomach lining than successfully getting him drunk. Henry bumps his shoulder, tries taunting him into doing an Irish car bomb but Armie curtly dismisses him, unable to conceal his upset now that his phone has remained silent for at least a half an hour. The lack of Timmy’s voice is eating away at him faster than his alcohol intake and causing twice as much damage.

There is shouting at the end of the bar near a makeshift stage. Alicia of TMFU is shouting at some guy in a Cleveland Browns jersey that’s twice her size and has sausage fingers around her tiny wrist. Armie doesn’t watch to gauge what’s happening, pushing through people waiting for their drinks, his eyes branded to this asshole’s grip on Alicia, first her wrist, and then her waist. Armie puts himself between them, Alicia clawing his left arm while his right levers back to pop her assailant in the mouth.

“Armie!” Alicia cries, half-lunging for the man who’s now bleeding into his palm before thinking better of it. She glares up at Armie from his shoulder, “I was fine! Wayne’s just drunk.”

Armie is incredulous. “_Wayne?_ You know this fucker?”

“He was at the show,” Alicia explains, taking a huge breath, adrenaline leaking out in her exhale. “You didn’t need to do that.”

“Jesus, man,” Wayne mutters, pinching the bridge of his nose. He pushes past them headed no doubt for the bathroom to inspect the damage.

Armie won’t apologize for clocking him, but does move out of his way, Alicia’s hold on his arm less violent than before. She urges him to sit next to her in an empty booth, the spot where she’s touching him growing warm under her palm.

“What’s with you tonight?”

For a few seconds, Armie’s mind was somewhere other than Los Angeles, cultivated by the ache in his knuckles, but now the West Coast returns in a rush that gives him motion sickness. He feels himself pale. “I don’t want to talk about it.”

Alicia studies him, and reluctantly, he looks back. She is pretty in a delicate way, like Timmy, with a doll’s face and long, slim legs. Their eyes are locked in silence for a few heavy seconds.

Armie’s phone rings. It takes a moment to register but he breaks eye contact and feels for the telltale rumble through his pocket. The skin of his hand is red from where bone met flesh. “Fuck, I have to take this.”

He slides out of the vinyl booth and shuffles through the crowd of drunks, letting his phone ring until he’s outside, pulling his jacket to fight the cold. He hits the button to answer then but takes his time before actually speaking, lights a cigarette, inhales and exhales, keeping Timmy on the hook for another 30 seconds. “The man of the fucking hour. To what do I owe the pleasure?”

There’s a small, quiet moment where Armie can almost make out the sound of Timmy’s lips pulling apart from each other. It’s a suffocating sound.

“Armie,” Timmy sighs but not with relief. His mood is unidentifiable, Armie’s name followed by a strange breath of laughter that is just as unsettling--or maybe the whiskey hit Armie harder than he thought. “I think you’ve called me more in the past hour than you have our entire relationship. Shit.”

There’s a handful of insults and mean-hearted jabs that Armie has loaded as defensive projectiles, but despite being left to steep in white-edged anger, he suddenly can’t bring himself to use them. Or maybe he’s just embarrassed there’s truth to Timmy’s statement.

He ignores the comment entirely, incapable of playing games right now. “Pretty fucking sweet of Matty to show up tonight.” Unlike Timmy’s ambiguity, there is nothing layered over Armie’s words; he sounds exactly how he feels.

“Oh--yeah.” Timmy’s voice is steady but the emptiness of background noise makes Armie privy to every breath and movement of his mouth. He is totally honed into the intricacies of Timmy’s reaction, analyzing all of it. He can practically feel Timmy nervously licking his lips, searching for how to play this. “I mean, that’s okay right? We had that talk in New York… I just didn’t think--”

“Yeah.” Armie wants to beat the shit out of his past self for ever thinking himself evolved enough to handle Matty’s continued presence in Timmy’s life. It had been easy to ignore them texting each other and liking Instagram posts, but knowing that Matty was in the same room as Timmy tonight makes Armie’s skin crawl; he knows what Timmy tastes like, how he screws. Matty knows how Timmy’s rough, deepened voice sounds after his throat’s been fucked. Armie boils over. “You didn’t think. Why the fuck haven’t you answered any of my calls?”

Armie wants to vomit hearing himself ask a question like that, like some scorned teenager who can’t take a hint; he never saw himself becoming this person.

Timmy obviously hears the accusation sewn into his words. “What the hell?” His tone is sharp, offended, any of the caution in his hello is gone. “He wanted to support the book and we went out for a drink to celebrate after. It’s not a big deal.” He breathes out a sarcastic little laugh. “This is why I didn’t tell you.”

“Oh, fuck you,” Armie groans, his face turned away from the wind, burning up and freezing at the same time. “_I_ wanted to support you, but I can’t because I’m here. And you know how sorry I am about that. But to replace me with the guy you ran to when things got rough…”

Timmy cuts across him. “We’re _friends,_ Armie. I don’t know why you can’t accept that. It’s not Matty I’m dating, it’s you.”

“How long have you known he was coming?”

Timmy huffs, snaps the tip of his tongue against his teeth. Armie knows he’s going to sidestep the question, his suspicion confirmed when Timmy responds by shutting him down. “This is pointless. I can’t talk to you when you’re like this.”

“Fuck you. Answer the question.”

“God! You’re so frustrating.”

“Yeah, well, I’m _frustrated_ too, Timmy,” Armie scoffs through gritted teeth, mocking. “And it’s pretty fucking_ frustrating_ that you can’t seem to go anywhere without your ex-boyfriend chasing you around.”

Timmy laughs, fucking _laughs_ on the other end and Armie doesn’t have it in him to feel remotely guilty about the fact they’re arguing on what is meant to be a special night for him. Timmy should have thought about that before sneaking around with twinky assholes with bad teeth.

“You really want to do this?” Timmy almost sounds sad, but Armie knows from past arguments that he actually revels in Armie’s jealousy; he doesn’t usually ask that Armie cut it out so soon into a dispute like this.

Armie holds his phone in a white-knuckled grip, hissing to avoid being overheard by a couple exiting the bar. “You’re lying or just plain stupid if you’re telling me that you don’t think he’s trying to fuck you.”

“You’re being ridiculous,” Timmy throws back easily. Armie can’t tell if he’s actually indifferent or just too afraid to give him a real answer. It writes out the fact that Timmy hasn’t answered any of his questions in neon lights.

“For good reason.”

Armie doesn’t think he can get any more pressed until Timmy taunts him, acid in his voice, “What, you worried I sucked his cock just because he came to the show tonight?” There is a dark amusement in Timmy’s voice, as though he is daring Armie to take this argument where they both know he could. “Is that what you think of me?”

Armie forces himself to breathe, dropping his head forward, between his shoulders and pushing air through his lungs, in, out, in, out, in. It doesn’t do any good. He still steers them straight into dangerous waters, lets loose the venomous observation that’s filled his mind and mouth like bile. “With your history, I wouldn’t be surprised.”

There is silence on the other end of the call for a long beat, but Armie can’t seem to be repentant for it. Timmy is being defensive and cruel, and he’s fucking _wrong_ here. He should have told Armie that Matty was going to be there. If the tables were turned, Timmy would be murderous.

“Wooow,” Timmy exhales eventually in a low, drawn out breath once silence has become the third member of their call. “How long have you been waiting to use that shit against me?” Armie can hear the wavering in his voice, can practically see the wrinkles in his chin from fighting back hot, angry tears. He still doesn’t feel guilty for saying it — not yet, anyway. “You know that was different. _You’re_ different.”

“Am I?” Armie snaps. “Doesn’t look like it from where I’m standing.” He’s walked to the curb and sits down, an elbow on his knee, staring at his dangling wrist, at the shitty scratcher tattoo he got when he was sixteen. A poorly drawn music bar with notes, each line wildly crooked. He rips off the obnoxiously green bracelet the venue had given him tonight. Armie stomps the paper into the gutter and watches as the melting snow swallows it. Green is a stupid fucking color.

“Stop it,” Timmy mumbles, and Armie knows that if he’d used his voice, the plea would sound wet. “I don’t understand why you can’t just trust me.”

The emotion he’s covering should cripple Armie’s anger, but his temper is a wildfire. It lashes at any attempt to contain it.

“A, you already lied by not telling me he was coming. B, Ansel trusted you and we both know where that got him.” He can’t check his baser impulses. He’s spent the last hour in paranoia and Timmy deserves to carry part of the burden, has to accept his part of the blame. “With me, all it took was some coke in the bathroom with a total stranger. Matty has offered you way more than that.”

“Armie, come on! What the fuck.” It sounds like Timmy is on the move from the way the noise transitions on the line. It hadn’t occurred to Armie that he wasn’t home -- was he still out with Matty? Was he eavesdropping on this conversation? “Is that what you think of me? That I just open up for anyone, so long as I can get something from them? You’re unbelievable.”

There is a voice in the background cutting into the static of their call, calling Armie’s name. He looks over his shoulder and sees Dakota peeking out from inside the bar. She waves him over but he shakes his head. She watches him closely for a minute, smiles softly then flips him off in that loving way she does. Armie remembers the cold and shivers, feeling how brittle his eyelashes are.

Timmy is breathing harshly and Armie listens to him unlocking a door -- maybe his apartment’s -- but before he can conjure a full scene of Matty stumbling in behind Timmy he instead shoves his bare hand into a mound of dirty snow on the curb, letting the cold shock him away from the thought. He closes his eyes, speaking calmly, hopelessness creeping in. “Tell me I’m wrong.”

“I shouldn’t have to.” Armie can’t place Timmy’s tone. He sounds kind of deflated, soft like when he realizes he’s tired of being drunk, when he wants to go home from a bar, when he’d rather sit in Armie’s shitty Altima and get high and fool around instead of watching a movie at the theatre.

For a desperate millisecond, Armie feels himself leaning into the idea of begging Timmy to prove him wrong; the possibility is eating him alive. Luckily Timmy spares him the embarrassment. “Come on--”

“This is too much right now,” Timmy snarls definitively, indignation meeting fatigue. “Call me back when you’re over your caveman bullshit. And my show went well, thanks for asking.”

The call ends.

“That fucker hung up on me,” Armie says to no one in particular, slightly stunned. He blinks at his phone screen, brow furrowed. This was not how he imagined their talk going. Timmy sidestepped all of his questions and went on the attack. Armie was looking for an explanation and relief, but now all he feels is confused.

Is he being crazy? He doesn't think so. Even Dakota found it strange that Matty would be at Timmy’s event without any of them knowing it.

An unpleasant mix of guilt and ire fills him, meeting the alcohol he’d consumed and turning his stomach. Matty’s smile sticks in his mind, earnest and taunting, his eyes crinkled by the wattage of it. And Timmy next to him, mirroring his excitement. It isn’t the kind of happiness that can be faked. No matter what Timmy says or doesn’t, Matty being there meant something to him.

It seems to be a night for reflection and instead of going back inside for last call, Armie waterboards himself with comparisons between what he and Timmy were before, what they are now, and what they might become. He had never cared about relationships until Timmy and now it feels like no amount of showers could wash off the dirt of his insurmountable jealousy.

He weighs what he has to offer against what Timmy had with Matty and hates the results. Pulling his numb, purple hand out of the snow Armie pockets his phone and stands up.

Back in the bar, he takes a piss and brushes snowflakes out of his hair, all the while practicing some bullshit breathing technique that Dakota learned in yoga. He’ll call Timmy back once he’s calmed down and they can actually talk. Right now his skin is buzzing and he needs another drink.

He lines up behind a group of women celebrating a bachelorette party, rolling his eyes and baring his teeth at one of the women who is boldly checking him out. The faces he knows are all crammed into a booth near the front of the room.

The bartender takes Armie’s order a minute later, the bridal party tittering at him as they pass with their aqua-colored drinks and cheap satin sashes. He ignores them and waits for his beer, fully aware that anything harder would only be a bad idea.

Things are shutting down, friend groups settling up and splitting off, making plans to either go to one of their apartments or saying goodbye. Armie catches Dev waving from his seat in the booth and waves back, figuring he will have his last beer and then they can all walk back to where the buses are parked together.

His phone rings.

Timmy’s name flashing on the screen is redundant. Armie feels the vibration in his core, and is whipped suddenly by the strange desire to not answer.

He doesn’t understand why his stomach has dropped until he picks up, automatically moving away from the bar without his drink, wading toward the front door again; he doesn’t even feel the sting of cold air when it meets his skin this time.

Timmy on the other end of the call, is crying.

Armie lines the phone up better with his ear in an effort to make out what he’s saying. “Hey, hey. Slow down. I--what?”

“I love you, Armie. So much,” Timmy heaves, sawing in and out stutters of breath. “Just you.”

Armie walks away from the bar, down the street. “Yeah, I love you too.” His voice comes out sounding more tense than he means; in the face of Timmy’s sudden breakdown, he has no choice but to be calm. But it’s difficult to stay composed when, for some reason, it feels like he should be bracing himself.

He doesn’t understand anything.

The blow lands after thirty seconds of Timmy catching his breath, cars slicing by to pick up patrons of the bar, couples stumbling arm in arm. Armie is alone around the corner of the next block when Timmy speaks again, his voice still stuffy but clear, his confession hiding in a whisper. “We kissed.”

Armie stops walking. For a second all he can hear is the blood rushing between his ears. His mouth opens without input from his brain. “What.” It isn’t a question.

“Just a little,” Timmy says, as if that quantifier could make any fucking difference.

“Oh, just a little?” Armie sneers back, falsely chipper. “No big deal then--you fucking lied to me, repeatedly, to see your ex-boyfriend and then lied to me again, twenty minutes ago when I confronted you about it. But if it was ‘just a little’ kissing, then I guess there isn’t any reason to be upset.” Even as he’s speaking, behind the scenes Armie is trying to process this new piece of information. When Timmy wasn’t answering his phone earlier, he was with Matty. And they were kissing--or fuck, probably doing a hell of a lot more than kissing. Timmy is a liar.

And he is fully crying again, babbling about how sorry he is, how it was a stupid mistake and how he’s just been feeling so much distance between them lately. Spewing meaningless fucking bullshit. “I choose you,” he whines, sucking back snot. “You know I do. I fucked up, but it was only kissing and I choose you.”

Armie isn’t ready to move past _We kissed_ yet. He is still free-falling, desperately searching for something to cling on to. Anger. He puts the phone against his other ear and speaks with a clenched jaw, his voice dangerously low. “Fuck you for ever assuming there was more than one option.”

“No!” Timmy’s voice cuts through, wild, frantic in the same way Armie’s heart is pounding in his chest. “Fuckfuckfuck. I didn’t mean it like that. Armie, _please_. Hear me out.”

He could almost laugh. “I don’t give a shit what you have to say. You were never an option to me, Timmy.” Armie‘s mouth breaks into a crooked, bitter smile. “We haven’t been perfect but it was only ever you.”

Timmy responds in more stuttering sobs and broken words. Broken promises, broken everything. It’s meaningless now. Armie knows immediately that there’s nothing here worth putting back together.

“I should’ve known you’d be a mistake.”

“Don’t say that,” Timmy wails, “Armie please.”

Armie doesn’t feel grounded. He can’t feel the pavement or the cold or even his own body. The gears inside his head are jammed. “I loved you,” he breathes, marveling at the absurdity of it. “I would have never fucking cheated on you. You were…”

Timmy’s breathing sounds wrong, almost violent. When he isn’t choking, he’s begging. ‘Don’t--stop speaking in the past tense. We’re going to be okay. Baby, I fucked up. I know. But I love you, I can fix it.”

“No.” Armie doesn’t want to argue with Timmy. Not again, not about this. He pulls his phone away from his ear, looking down at the screen, Timmy’s name with a heart next to the y. It’s all bullshit, it always has been. What a waste. “We’re done,”

He hangs up and clicks the screen black.

Cutting off Timmy’s incoherent pleading is like cutting off a limb. The wound feels mortal and all Armie wishes for is the mercy of bleeding out. Every breath is agony.

As soon as he’s met with the terrible quiet of the dark street, his phone begins jumping in his hand, Timmy’s name emblazoned on the screen, the picture of him effecting a double chin antagonizing in its silliness. Armie rejects the call, stooping over to retch, his bleary gaze on the gutter while Timmy calls back, again and again.

I doesn’t seem real, like re-watching your favorite movie for the hundredth time only somehow, the ending is different. The hero doesn’t get the girl. They don’t pull off the heist. Everyone dies.

When Armie drags himself upright again the world still feels tilted. His palm is still vibrating and the only thing to do for it is to shut his phone off. Timmy won’t stop calling, and there’s nothing he could say to make any of it go away.

They’re over.

They were over the minute he lied to Armie about Matty coming to the show, with no chance for reconciliation the minute their lips touched; Timmy just didn’t know it yet. In reality, Armie has been single for days, weeks maybe. He could’ve fucked the DJ at that party two nights ago who wanted his number, with the ringed fingers and dark eyeliner. It didn’t even cross his mind at the time but now he’s feeling stupid for not at least imagining it. He should’ve been keeping his options open, like Timmy.

With nothing to immediately draw his attention, Armie’s mind queues up a hectic, unorganized rewind of the past few weeks -- the nights he’d bailed on Timmy to record or practice time, or even just sleep. Of the dates they’d never made it on because they chose to argue or fuck or both, instead. Of the nights when Armie would be writing music in tense silence while Timmy laid in bed, face lit up by his phone screen and probably Matty Healy. And that was all while he was still in Los Angeles; the opportunities for their division only grew exponentially when Armie left again.

The distance between them, not just physical, has a noise, an insidious buzzing sound, so loud that it’s deafening. How was he was only hearing it now?

As his mind spirals, his feet lead him through the city, footprints fucking up the neatly laid snow. He doesn’t register where he’s going or even where he is, buildings empty, streets empty, like the inside of his chest. He can’t settle on any one topic of destruction for long, wanting to sample everything, passing over Timmy’s voice on the phone earlier tonight when he had been getting ready and how he knew then that he’d be seeing Matty, conjuring up different scenarios for how Matty came to be at the show in the first place, putting together different possibilities of how they’d kissed. Was it frenzied or slow and inevitable, faces sinking inward, eyes falling shut? Could Timmy still taste Matty on his lips now, could he smell his skin, feel him against his body? Did their dicks get hard?

Armie thinks back to his own last kiss with Timmy. A throwaway peck in front of Timmy’s car after he’d stayed over one night. If he’d known it was going to be the last one, he would have done things differently. He would have cancelled the tour. They’d still be kissing now.

The visuals are a vicious punishment for his entire body, his lungs failing to intake air properly, his heart lurching despondently, his feet aching in the cold leather of his boots — the ones Timmy gave him for Christmas in New York.

What a fucking nightmare love was. Armie is on the road experiencing a life he’d dreamt for himself, a new city every night with cheering crowds and a song on the radio, and he’s never felt worse.

He stops walking, gazing at the buildings closing in. Nothing looks familiar. Maybe nothing ever will.

When Armie finally turns his phone on to navigate back to where the bus is parked behind the venue, he sees that he’s been walking for two hours—no wonder his face and hands are numb, Timmy can’t take all the credit—he also sees that he has 22 missed calls and a flood of text messages.

Timmy hasn’t disappeared now that they’ve broken up. He still exists, back home in Los Angeles. And he texts again in the few seconds that Armie has eyes on his screen.

Timmy:  
i hate myself

Timmy:  
armie

Armie googles how to put his phone on Do Not Disturb so he can find his way back without walking purposefully into oncoming traffic.

It takes the better part of an hour before he recognizes anything. Armie barely remembers the walk back, unsure how he’d even made it to the venue parking lot, but Dakota is pushing away from the couch when the narrow door swings open, dragging him into the temperature-controlled bus.

“Oh my god, you’re freezing,” she hisses, clasping her hands around Armie’s wrists, his neck, his cheeks. There isn’t a drop of anger in her voice for how long he’s been gone, how much she must’ve worried. Had she spoken to Timmy? Matty? “What happened?”

Armie swallows, stepping further into the small front room, his boots leaving marks on the plush carpeting. He dumps his phone into one of the captain’s chairs. Reality strikes him all at once. His voice does not sound like his own.

“Are you okay, Armie--”

“We’re done.” The numbness that Armie has been cocooned in since the call thaws at the sight of Dakota’s face, full of love and concern. And_ here_ for him, like always. It doesn’t matter what she knows or doesn’t know. “He fucking lied and he—.”

“Oh,” Dakota whispers between them and Armie’s legs finally give out. He sinks slowly and she catches him, her small frame enveloping his collapse so that they crumple onto the sofa together.

“Yeah, shit,” Armie grunts before his voice breaks completely. “It’s over, Dakota.” He sounds almost amused about it, all of his jealousy justified, until he’s crying. It’s embarrassing and Armie has a spare thought that he doesn’t want the rest of the bus to hear him, but he’s lost control.

Dakota doesn’t ask questions, instead just pulls him closer. Armie’s wet, pathetic face falls against her chest and she holds him in her arms despite the fact he’s twice her size. He pinches his eyes tight to blacken the images fighting to make themselves seen and instead focuses on the rise and fall of Dakota’s chest underneath his cheek, how her leg drapes over his hip in an effort to ground him. It reminds him of Timmy, clinging to his side in sleep, and a wave of feeling washes over him, despair and grief and unadulterated anger. Armie sobs quietly, gently against Dakota and doubts his ability to stop.

He was a fool. Timmy had made him into one, demanding that Armie love him only to decide that the way he did wasn’t enough. He let Armie beat himself up over not being there tonight knowing that Matty would be, and then he balked at Armie’s accusation only to confirm it.

They fought and they had problems, but not once did Armie lift his head looking for an exit. It’d taken he and Timmy months to really find each other but once they had, he was committed. Timmy’s love, it turned out, was conditional. And Armie no longer met the criteria.

The hurt has pulled tight every muscle in his body, his bones aching, his skin on fire. It reminds him of being sick when he’s little, so upset that he could do nothing but cry for his mom.

Armie thinks of home. His brother reading in the room adjacent to his own, his parents watching television down the hall. He remembers when things hadn’t been so bad between them, back when they thought that everything with Armie was just a phase — his clothes, his music, his friends, his mistakes. Holding Dakota tighter, he realizes that he wants to go back.

His family may have hurt him, disrespected their relationship and severed the closeness of their bond, betrayed him even. But they are still obligated to love him. Timmy isn’t. The presence of his love is gone. The hole it leaves is endless.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> we really didn't want to post this chapter until we were actively writing again, so thanks for hanging tight. the next chapter will be from matty's POV.


	7. 102

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> here we are -- matty's pov of That Night. we hope you all enjoy it half as much as we did writing from our fave's side of things.  
this chapter was a long time in the making and the song it's inspired from is one of the best 1975 songs. check it out [HERE](https://m.youtube.com/watch?v=SLrqm8F7TgM) and feel emosh. we love youuuu!!!
> 
> \- oyb & cpx

Hair straightener cooling next to his hand, Matty’s reflection levels him with a stare from the bathroom mirror. His gaze is clinical, eyeing up a dark, loose mohawk and freshly cut sides for imperfections, but beneath the mask, Matty is shitting himself.

Seeing Timmy tonight, for the first time since the events of Halloween, is a paralyzing breed of excitement. They’ve shared a few FaceTime calls in the interim, but in an hour or so they’ll be standing in the same place again. Anticipation steals the air from his lungs and makes a ruin of his pulse.

The room he’s booked is far too large. The bathroom echoes. The silence of it feels loud. He thinks about turning on the telly for some background noise.

Matty could have stayed with any number of friends during his short trip to Los Angeles, but he booked a hotel knowing that he’d be a mess before Timmy’s reception. It doesn’t make sense — Matty has no expectations of the evening outside of supporting Timmy’s book release — but he’s proper nervous, on edge in a way that not too long ago would have meant ringing up a dealer.

A quick text that he’ll see Timmy tonight is all the correspondence they’ve exchanged since Matty’s landing — well, that and Timmy’s overzealous emoji-only reply. They’ll have time to talk in person.

It feels strange to be back in L.A., a city where he has cataloged a thousand memories and yet is strongly reminded now of one summer’s fling. The palm trees and sprawling cityscape used to scream music deals and success. On the drive to the hotel today, they sang of shared coffees and unhinged laughter. Smiling kisses after walks on warm pavement and thin fingers in dark hair.

Matty’s reflection is watching him think. It ties a velvet pussycat bow under his white collar. It threads his arms into a fitted black suit jacket and a leather belt into his slacks. It judges him.

“I bloody know,” Matty sighs at it, leaning forward to wash his hands before toweling them off and leaving the bathroom.

There is a bottle of wine next to a half-empty carton of fags on the private balcony. March in England isn’t so different from March in Los Angeles. Bleaker maybe, and a little wetter but manageable. He drags out a fragile looking chair from the patio table and pours himself a glass of red, lights himself a cigarette.

Neither do anything about the wild galloping of his heart.

-

Matty slips his mobile out of his slacks and checks the time. 7:13 PM. He’s late. Time got away from him.

After pulling up the address Timmy sent a few days prior for his driver to navigate to the gallery, he scrolls through their thread of recent messages. Now that Matty is in the same timezone as Timmy, he sees more clearly that most of their conversations were late night affairs for Timmy. His _stoked to have you on the west coast again_ from yesterday came in at 1:02 AM. While Matty frequently began his days with check-ins from Timmy, Timmy was reaching out to him from bed.

It’s a dangerous observation.

Matty isn’t late because time got away from him. He is arriving well after an hour into the reception because, for a passing moment on the balcony, he’d thought better of showing up.

His short time with Timmy had shown Matty nothing about himself if not that he was weak; Seven weeks spent with horses kicking heroin in Barbados hadn’t eliminated his addictive personality. It had only succeeded in shifting his attention to a new substance. Matty is self-aware. He knows the thrill of hearing Timmy’s voice every time he calls, the way his chest constricts whenever he’s gifted a selfie, is kin with how he’d felt when he’d pick up, take a hit.

It’d been all too easy to overlook Timmy as a _problem_ when the high was never followed by a bitter come down.

The hotel isn’t far from the gallery. It’s a drive punctuated by glaring tail lights and scrolling twitter to keep Matty’s mind from tripping over itself. No more than twenty minutes later the car is pulling out of traffic toward a row of white buildings with terracotta-colored rooves in West Hollywood.

There is no guesswork involved in parsing out which one is housing Timmy’s event. A small crowd is milling around out front, with a larger grouping visible through wide windows. Sure enough, a sandwich board with _Timothée Chalamet_ scrawled in chalk above an arrow directs Matty once he’s folded out of the car and onto the street.

Warm edison bulbs are strung all the way up the block, setting the scene in romantic hues. Los Angeles in the evenings has always carried so much feeling in it. As Matty’s feet carry him closer, the crowd sharpens into individual people. Most of them are around his age, and dressed — if not as formally — well enough. It is clear by body language and widening eyes that people recognize him, but only a few are bold enough to ask for a selfie or autograph.

This isn’t what Matty wanted, to steal any of Timmy’s spotlight, but he politely humors them, taking quick photos before excusing himself. Now that he’s arrived, he can’t fathom why he’d been dragging his feet about coming.

He knows the sound of Timmy’s heart. It’s close and propels him inside.

The glass double doors have been propped open so as to allow for an easy flow of traffic but Matty still has to move sideways to get past the mouth of the gallery. The turnout is incredible. He feels his chest swell with pride, remembering all the nights and early mornings he’d spent listening to Timmy ramble on about how he wants to take photos of everything, passion and unabashed love pouring out with every fantastical idea he’d had for future projects. Timmy had been so uncertain about the photobook, but like everything that he found fearful, he’d still thrown himself into it — Matty understands that reckless abandon.

Bordering the room full of people and drinks and newly purchased books are some of Timmy’s photographs, blown up to impressive effect. Matty’s eye catches first on an enormous portrait of himself next to the refreshments table, captured from the barricade during a show. Microphone in hand, the stage lights create a halo behind him, his eyes closed, mouth open around a lyric.

Once the moment of narcissism passes, he takes notice of a few others: a photo of Ross and Adam backstage, one of Dakota with an ice cream cone, a shot of a parking lot at night with Armie’s unmistakable silhouette in the farground.

Then the crowd parts and Matty’s attention is stolen by another work of art.

Four months apart hasn’t made Timmy any less recognizable — Matty doubts whether he’ll ever enter a room occupied by Timothée Chalamet and not be rendered useless — but there are subtle differences about the way he looks tonight. Maybe it’s just the lighting or the smart emerald green suit that’s been tailored perfectly for his long, slender frame, or the fact that he seems to have washed his unruly hair for once.

Whatever the reason, Matty is struck by the uneasy truth of time having passed.

The dark curls hanging all over Timmy’s face have grown since Halloween, offering only a taste of the biting bone structure underneath. His cheeks are splotchy with color which Matty knows to mean that he’s both pleased and embarrassed to be the center of attention tonight. Timmy seems out of place and yet exactly where he belongs, always a walking contradiction; it’s one of the qualities that had first charmed Matty.

Nothing has changed, then.

Their eyes catch while Timmy is hovering with a small group of people near a wide-angle shot of Matty’s entire band. He can’t remember which date of the tour it was, but can clearly recall the way Timmy’s denim jacket had fit around his shoulders, how every inhale during a song was accompanied by a mouthful of his smell, sweet and smothering.

The shared gaze has to break eventually; there are too many bodies between Matty and Timmy, but it is a reluctant parting, Timmy turning his head before his eyes, a promise to find Matty at his earliest convenience in the apologetic curl of his lips.

The initial plaster of their meeting ripped off, Matty helps himself to a compostable cup filled with wine from the small table to his left. He sips and watches as Timmy struggles to maintain conversation with those around him, his eyes flitting from whoever is speaking to check that Matty is still nearby. Matty can’t help himself and breaks into a laugh when he feels them a third time, Timmy mirroring his grin almost instantly before excusing himself from the chattering circle of visitors he has been closed into.

Matty drains what’s left of his cup and sets it aside during Timmy’s approach, feeling for some reason like he needs his hands to be free. He tries nonchalance but suspects that he’s visibly vibrating.

Timmy stops a few tiles away. His smile is boyish and ethereal. “Man, it’s been a minute huh. What up?”

“Hello, Timothée,” Matty replies, and then they’re folding into a hug. Timmy smells like the rose water shampoo he’s all too familiar with and his breath is a relieved puff of laughter. They stay tangled for a long moment. “Your pictures look mint.”

His compliment breaks the spell and they part so that Timmy can grab at the back of his neck and blush furiously. “Whatever,” he grins, shaking his head. “Where’s George?”

Matty is almost embarrassed by how quickly the lie slides out of him. “He couldn’t make it. Sends his regards, though.” There’s an echo of George’s voice in the back of his head, asking if seeing Timmy would be a smart idea. Matty didn’t have an answer for him then but looking at Timmy now, Matty wouldn’t have done anything differently.

Timmy leans back slightly to take in Matty’s full ensemble and Matty acts as if he hadn’t done the same as soon as his eyes had landed on all that green. Skinny fingers stroke the hanging material of his bow, tug at the back of his relaxed mohawk.

“You hate straightening your hair,” Timmy comments and Matty merely shrugs. They don’t linger on it. “Well, you look—”

“Yeah, alright. That’s enough out of you.”

Timmy makes a sound like a giggle and then in a swift, familiar motion he presses the pad of his index finger into the dimple of Matty’s chin. “I missed your diplomatic chin.”

Matty barks a laugh, fond memories flooding in of Timmy teasing him about it last summer. Fuck, he’s missed him. “You nutter.” Their laughs mingle in the air until they don’t, evaporating slowly.

There is more than one pair of eyes on their exchange, fans likely or maybe people who simply know Timmy as someone else’s boyfriend. Armie Hammer’s presence haunts without a body.

Silence stretches, beginning to stifle.

Matty rolls his eyes. “Well, go on then. Show me around.”

“Really?” Timmy’s face pinches into something like a grimace, nose scrunched. Matty tilts his head curiously, raising expectant eyebrows. “But you’ve seen most of them,” Timmy says, taking a look around the large gallery, twisting without moving a step away from where they’re stood close together. “Maybe all of them.”

Matty doesn’t doubt that, remembering the texts and emails Timmy had sent while narrowing down what should go into the book, either asking for an opinion or just venting about the process. Still, he’s proud that it’s all come to fruition; he wants to see the final product.

Reaching out, Matty nudges his elbow against Timmy’s arm. The contact is brief but sparks, flint on steel. “Oi, you think I got all dolled up just to stand around and drink this dodgy wine?” His smile is all teeth and Timmy’s chest deflates with a laugh that feels like victory.

He stands up to his full height, asking, “You mean you didn’t get dolled up for me?” slapping a hand over his chest in mock distress. “I’m hurt.”

Matty tests his tongue against the back of his teeth, resisting the urge to smile. “You’re dramatic, now stop pissing about and show me your art.”

Timmy surrenders with a nod. Matty can tell that he’s working over a thought as they drift towards a long wall of prints, his brow pulled tight like he’s contemplating an idea, or considering an opinion.

“Is it, though?” Timmy asks after a beat, looking between Matty and the photo they’ve approached, of Matty in the crowd during one of his shows, met with countless outstretched arms and a bouquet of white daisies that he is reaching back for.

The angle seems impossible. Timmy would have had to have been floating overhead to capture such a shot, but he doesn’t question it, devouring in the details of his composition, and the notion that this is how Timmy saw him, at least for a second. Matty spends a long time with the photo. He remembers taking a bite out of the flowers later in the set and spitting petals back into the crowd. Timmy had ended up with one caught in his hair.

He can feel Timmy’s eyes on his neck. “What?”

“Is it art?”

“Yes, you donut.” Matty turns back to him, “Every expression of humanity’s imagination is. And you’re not just pointing at something and pressing a button. You’re creating a moment, capturing a feeling. I reckon even if you never picked up a camera, you’d still be making art. It’s core to who you are.”

Timmy is just looking at him, taking in Matty’s argument with a crooked little grin and wide, slow blinking eyes.

_You yourself are art_, Matty wants to say, but lets the impulse suffocate, never reaching the air. He could’ve gotten away with it months ago, and likely did, back when Timmy was spending September evenings buried naked under the sheets in Matty’s rented apartment.

Matty washes away those memories with a new cup of wine, pressed into his hand by a passing girl with a tray.

They only manage to circle part of the room, being stopped every few steps to say hello to strangers and mutual friends alike or to take a few photos. They pace another few steps before stopping in front of a photo of Dev spinning with his bass. Matty takes it in while Timmy fidgets at his side. The air is quiet between them.

“I’m glad you came,” is what Timmy comes up with to chase away another bout of silence, dropping his forehead to Matty’s shoulder and nudging him with it. It’s such a spontaneous, affectionate gesture that it hurts to receive, another reminder of what Matty’s been missing with an ocean between them.

A man in a bomber jacket witnesses the interaction, hanging back in wait for someone’s attention. Once Matty’s eyes swivel over to him, Timmy’s do the same and his face lights up with recognition.

“Daniel! You didn’t have to come, seriously. But welcome!” He goes in for a friendly hug and they both separate smiling. Matty watches with genuine interest, always captivated by Timmy in social settings. He must be unaware of the effect he has on people. No one with this much power could be privy to it, it’d be dangerous. Alluring on a level typically reserved for A-listers and cult leaders.

“So this is what you left us for,” Daniel comments, making a show of looking around the room at Timmy’s work.

Timmy’s smile turns sheepish. “Yeah, something like that.” Both hands shoot out then towards Matty. “Let me introduce you to Matty. He’s the guy you see in most of these pictures. He was kind enough to bring me on tour with his band last year.”

Matty and Daniel shake hands. “Good to meet you, mate.”

“You too.” There must be a certain look on Matty’s face because Daniel is eager to fill in the blanks. “Timmy and I worked together in a past life.”

That tracks. “At Whole Foods,” he guesses correctly by the way Timmy lights up. Gentle pride flickers in Matty’s abdomen. Timmy has been smiling at him over FaceTime and Instagram stories for too long to overwhelm him, but it’s still like watching the sun rise.

“Yeah, yeah. He was the boss man,” Timmy laughs, patting Daniel on the shoulder.

Matty lets out a breath. “Cool. Hey, T, I’ll let you catch up. I’m going to stop monopolizing you and have a better look around.”

“What?” Timmy steps in Matty’s direction, looking like he’s been told he has to swim without water wings.

“Yes, it’s your night. You made this happen. Go enjoy it.” Matty is all too familiar with how these sort of events work, how Timmy will be yanked around by the masses for a chat. He’d rather let him have his moment than be forced to bring the conversation back to Matty for introduction time and time again. And as far as fans of the 1975 and the industry suits milling about are concerned, Matty’s presence should speak volumes enough about what he thinks of the photobook. There will be articles up on music websites tomorrow morning with photos of them talking together, and with a link to Timmy’s portfolio.

“Yeah, but.” Timmy is struggling with something and he gives Daniel an apologetic look, asking with his eyes for forgiveness as he steps away from their conversation. Daniel looks like he’s been well worn by Timmy’s charm and simply nods with a warm smile. “I’m like, really bad at this. Networking and listening to people say nice shit, compliments. It’s fucking weird.”

Matty wants to laugh at how endearing he is. Timmy would grasp the most inopportune moment to confess his anxiety, in the middle of the event celebrating his art and achievements. Despite being praised all night, Timmy is struggling to accept that he’s not just good at what he does, he’s fucking brilliant.

It’s a fact he will rub up against often enough to erode some of this doubt soon; which makes seeing Timmy in this unadulterated state is a privilege.

“Shut up talkin,” Matty grins dismissively, but his eyes are soft as he walks fingers against the cut of Timmy’s jaw and gives him a firm tap. “I’ll find you in a bit.”

Walking away from Timmy by choice is no easier now that it’d been last year, but Matty manages, slinking through pockets of people towards the front door for a fag.

A few girls with copies of Timmy’s photobook held under their arms near the entrance want pictures and Matty’s autograph. “We’re so glad you and Timmy are still friends,” one of the girls mentions as she’s ducking in to put her face next to his for a photo.

The other girl bookends him, adding in a conspiratorial tone that, “You guys are really cute together.”

After going back to the UK, Matty had spent considerable time in interviews skirting questions about his relationship with Timmy. They had never been anything official but in the age of the internet and fans who dissect everything, it’d been abundantly clear that they were something more than friends.

The girl’s observation is flattering but Matty doesn’t give them more than an awkward laugh, drifting toward another pair of people trying to get his eye that would like a moment to talk once these two are satisfied. They are also carrying Timmy’s book and instead of wanting selfies, only ask that he explain the stories behind a few of the photographs. For good reason, Timmy didn’t include any overtly intimate snapshots and so Matty obliges, reminiscing with the girls about a few pictures.

It turns out that they were at the San Diego show and want to know when The 1975 will be announcing dates to tour with their new album, released only last month. “Soon,” is all Matty can say, thanking them for their support with hugs and hoping they enjoy the book.

Before conversation can steer too directly towards himself and Timmy, Matty finds his way outside and down the block a bit to smoke in silence. He lets the toxins drown out the smell of rose water and cheap wine.

When he goes back in, his eyes find Timmy without his input, leaned over to better hear someone a foot shorter than him asking about a particular print on the wall. Blue pins are tacked up next to some of the pieces and after another moment, the one in question receives its own.

Sold.

Timmy vigorously shakes the buyer’s hand and Matty privately swoons, hiding a grin in the rim of his replenished wine cup. Matty’s eyes don’t wander far, only away long enough for him to post on Instagram about the event, a quick pan of the room and a few photos of Timmy’s work.

There’s a self-portrait of Timmy on the left side of the room that Matty remembers being adamant about having included. He is biased, but looking at the raw quality of the photo, he stands by it. In black and white, Timmy’s reflection looms at a distance in a dirty mirror. Hungover and admittedly torn up over Armie that day of tour in particular, he hangs crumpled at the end of a messy hotel bed. It’s breathtaking, and will send the internet reeling. Matty posts a shot of it and tags #wherestimmy with a heart next to his handle.

It’s warm in the gallery with so many bodies flowing through and Matty ends up stripping off his suit jacket, hooking it onto a provided coat rack. Timmy is still fully put together, his white dress shirt crisp underneath his emerald jacket. He flits from person to person, giving teaspoons of his attention to everyone but never staying long. His smile is wide, but brittle and he keeps checking his phone. Many of the guests seem to know Timmy, but not on a deeply personal level. Very few does he vibe with, transforming into his impish, boisterous self only once or twice.

Saoirse and Greta are in attendance together and able to get a rise out of Timmy, Matty’s head turning when he whoops from across the space, clearly overjoyed to see them.

Even Sufjan has come, though it takes Matty a moment to recognize him without an acoustic guitar in tow. They wave from two different sides of the room, but Sufjan is too absorbed with one of the photos on the wall to come over and Matty likes his current vantage point near the door.

He spends most of the next hour slowly milling around, chatting with anyone who catches his eye but never straying too far from Timmy’s orbit. It’s not intentional, he doesn’t think, and is hopeful that it’s mutual — Timmy’s eyes find him periodically, passing over a smile or nod. Matty files each gesture away for later, to take out and remind himself that he’s not made all this up inside his head.

There is a moment that strikes Matty during the descent of the evening. Timmy has drifted away from the crowd and pressed himself into a corner, mobile phone vice gripped in his hand, though it doesn’t seem like he’s doing anything in particular, just looking at it. His face as he stares down is aggressively sad; even from this distance, Matty can see the crumple of his eyebrows and the pout of his bottom lip.

Timmy looks upset and lonely and Matty aches for him. A life surrounded by people, especially in this industry, is not something that he’s ever found comfort in either. He knows the misery that comes with being away from those you love, the people that really matter, and it’s clear to Matty now just how impacted Timmy is by his family's absence. Dakota and Dev’s absence.

And unquestionably, Armie’s.

Someone nudges past him when they walk too close and wine sloshes over the edge of his cup. They don’t apologize but Matty wouldn’t have noticed either way. When his eyes refind Timmy after the interruption, his previous expression has disappeared, replaced by an impassive mask.

-

“When is this over?” Matty asks once the gallery has begun to empty out and Timmy has no one to actively schmooze.

Timmy looks at his phone, a picture of Armie lighting up the screen under the time. “Only about twenty minutes left.”

They hadn’t discussed any additional plans outside of seeing each other at the reception, but Matty isn’t ready for goodbyes. “Can I help you clean up? I feel shit for being late. I had a meeting in Highland Park.” The lie slides out as easily as the others. It reminds Matty of being on heroin, spooling out falsehood after falsehood to spare his friends’ feelings.

Timmy raises an arm over his head to wave at a few people on their way out. When his gaze returns, it’s warm. “There isn’t a ton to do. Just pack away the leftovers and fold down the tables. You don’t need to stay.”

“I want to.”

For a second, Matty thinks he must have done something wrong. Timmy is looking at him in a way that he’s not sure he understands, but the moment passes and he breaks into another one of his gummy smiles. “Yeah, okay.”

-

In the back of the gallery is a narrow space to stack frames or canvases before installation, a small fridge, and a sink. A box of nails and blue tape are stacked precariously at one edge of the porcelain. Matty hands Timmy the cheese plate and extra wine to put away once everyone else has gone. The space is not wide enough for them to stand side by side, Timmy reaching back over his shoulder to accept the items. However, he only shelves the cheese, gripping the bottle of red wine by its neck and flashing Matty an idea.

“Finish this with me to celebrate?”

Matty doesn’t even entertain saying no, just sagely nods and backs out of the hallway with Timmy striding toward him so they can migrate to somewhere with more elbow room

They go out the back door into the alley where large pieces are likely hauled in by truck. Timmy looks at the ground like he wants to sit but the broken glass and flats of gum have him deciding against it. He chooses to lean against the building instead, pulling open the top two buttons of his shirt when his head hits the stucco. He closes his eyes and takes a few breaths, wine bottle clutched in one hand. His relief is palpable, infectious.

“You did it,” Matty says fondly. The event was a success. The table that housed his books is empty. Most of the framed enlargements will be going to new homes.

Timmy cracks an eye, smiling in his self-deprecating way. “Do you think it went okay?”

“Fuck off with that,” Matty laughs. “You sold out of your first printing. About a million people came to see you. They wanted pictures, they wanted you to sign things. It was ace and you know it.”

That smile of Timmy’s sharpens. “It was, wasn’t it,” he gushes quietly.

“Yeah, now hand over the booze.”

Timmy lifts the bottle to his own lips to take a swig before passing it over. Their fingers touch and Timmy’s are warm. They make Matty want a cigarette.

Timmy must have reacted to the brush as well because his eyes are drawn downward. “I like your rings,” he says, and Matty finds himself working one off of his finger, dropping it into Timmy’s palm so that he can try it on. He does, fanning his hand out to see how it looks. “Sweet.”

“Keep it,” Matty tells him, and before Timmy can refuse they are tumbling onto a new topic of conversation. Chatting is so easy when it’s with Timmy. The silences are for thought, not awkwardness. And he and Matty are on nearly the same page with everything. They discuss and debate but always wind up at the same conclusion.

After a few pulls of wine each, they are both balanced on one shoulder to face each other. Matty thinks he hears a phone buzzing somewhere but puts a hand over his pocket to see that his own is sleeping. He’s going to mention it to Timmy but then green eyes are pulling him in, familiar affection behind each blink.

“I’m really glad you had business in LA this weekend,” Timmy says. Matty can smell the bitter warmth of wine on his breath. He can see it too, lining the inner skin of Timmy’s lower lip in pink-purple. It’s distracting.

Matty turns over Timmy’s comment a few times, just watching him, long curls that kiss the starched white of his collar. He clicks his jaw. “Actually, about that — ” Matty was going to leave it but continuing to lie feels wrong. He realizes that tonight is a night for truths, and there isn’t much time left. “I didn’t.”

Timmy is slow to catch his drift, brow crumpling before lifting up. His mouth falls open wider. “Whaat?”

The real reason for his attendance bleeds into the night, staining this moment, changing it. “I don’t have anything set up. I wasn’t at a meeting earlier — I just. You sounded proper sad on the phone when we talked about the show and I wanted to be here for you,” Matty is looking down at his shoes that point to Timmy’s; his boots are crossed ankle over ankle. He slips into a tentative smile when he looks back up. “I’m sorry for lying.”

“Matty.” Timmy’s voice flows between his parted lips. The sound makes Matty’s insides heat up; he’d missed hearing Timmy say his name like that, as something _more_. There’s a weight to it that drags them both into deeper waters.

A car alarm sounds from blocks away, blaring and then gone in the span of their silence. Matty wonders for a mad moment if it was coming from him. He runs fingers over his fresh sidecut nervously, tucking back invisible curls. “Is that alright?”

“No.” Timmy shakes his head. He pulls at his hair. He looks at Matty like he wants to cry, then he tells him soberly, “_Yes._”

Matty doesn’t get a chance to ask for clarification or to explain himself. Timmy swallows him with his searching, complicated stare and then he’s leaning in and Matty is meeting him halfway.

There is a small intake of breath, a shared gentle gasp that is extinguished when their mouths connect. Matty’s surprise is quickly blotted out too, overwhelmed by the static of so many brighter feelings.

He’s in Los Angeles and Timmy is with him, and they’re kissing. The universe scales down to only this alleyway. Nothing else exists.

Their initial graze of lips spurs Timmy into movement and he pushes away from the wall, Matty closing his fingers around the thin lapels of Timmy’s jacket to welcome him in, angling his own back against the wall. He tugs gently until their bodies align, Timmy’s hand under his chin and then on his chest, tangled into his velvet pussycat bow.

Matty feels every part of the kiss in more than just his lips. There’s something different about Timmy’s mouth. Matty has been with boys and girls in the time since they’ve been apart, but no one’s kiss has jumpstarted his heart the same way.

It’s impossible to hold onto a singular thought. Everything is rose water and cabernet, crunching gravel and smooth skin. Timmy tastes like their best nights together; staying up late just talking, sharing take out and cigarettes, wearing each other’s clothes whenever it suited them. Two lives melting seamlessly together for a brief moment in time.

Timmy presses against Matty, panting between each rearrangement of their mouths, tongues slipping over one another, hands pulling shirts loose to explore the skin underneath. Matty recognizes the hunger behind this kiss; Timmy is looking for something that Matty can only hope he’ll find.

It’s when Timmy pulls the fibers of his bottom lip between his teeth and kneads into the bare skin of his waist that Matty wakes up to what’s happening. Someone needs to be driving the car and thus far they’ve been content to makeout in the backseat, destination be damned.

He hadn’t dared to hope that tonight would go this way, but now that it has things will only get more complex from here. Matty knows that the only way forward is to come clean, to tell Timmy how deep his feelings are, that it’s always been real for him, that he was never playing any game.

“Timmy. Hang on, stop.” It kills him to put a hand at the base of Timmy’s throat and push him back, to see the heated look slow-dissolve from his face, but they need to talk.

Timmy sucks his swollen mouth, eyebrows bending into worry. “What is it?” His words are breathless. The yellow light from the alley casts his face in shadow.

Matty looks at his fingers splayed over Timmy’s shirt collar, pale meeting pale. He’s just broken up a moment that he’d been conjuring behind his eyelids for months, collaged from their short time together. It’s bloody painful but he needs to know: “What’s going on with you and Hammer?”

It doesn’t escape Matty that Timmy’s mobile is still sat next to the fridge inside. Conscious or subconscious, Timmy didn’t want Armie interrupting their sharing a bottle of wine.

“What do you mean?” Timmy asks darkly, stepping back so that Matty’s hand falls away, building a wall between them.

“You’re still with him, yeah?” While Armie’s been absent from Timmy’s social media as of late, he’s also been out of the state.

Timmy looks like he might be offended, though Matty isn’t sure about which part. “I don’t want to talk about Armie.” He runs a finger over his bottom lip, tracing where Matty’s just been. It’s thoughtful until he wipes over his whole mouth with the back of his hand.

There isn’t any time left, so Matty speaks in earnest. No white lies. No sparing the situation. “You know that I fancy you.”

Timmy’s, “I thought you just came to support me,” is a sidestep that Matty won’t let him take. They need to sort this out, one way or another.

“I did, but you just kissed me, mate.”

Matty sees before the words are out of Timmy’s mouth that he’s lost him (or never really had him to begin with.) “Shit. I shouldn’t have, I know. I’ve just been feeling so...I dunno. It was a mistake.” It’s a hit he’s prepared for but stings no less.

“Maybe.” Matty meets Timmy’s soft, narrowed gaze with one of his own. “But it happened for a reason. It was with _me_ for a reason.”

“Yeah, listen,” Timmy sighs, looking distressed. He lifts a hand between them but deliberates before reaching out the rest of the way towards Matty to touch his cheek. It‘s fire against Matty’s skin and he leans into it, Timmy’s thumb tracing the arrow of his nose. “I feel it too, I know that something’s here, Matty. There’s even a part of me that, maybe—” Timmy struggles with what to say.

Matty can see the myriad of explanations fighting to make their way out, a hundred definitions for what Timmy feels about him; labels for what they are and are not. Regardless of how this ends — with Timmy explaining that he loves him or resents him or something a shade in between — all the songs he’ll inevitably write about tonight will sound the same.

Matty places a palm over the back of Timmy’s hand, bringing it toward his mouth to kiss the bumps of his knuckles. “It’s fine, T.”

Timmy’s chin quivers and he shakes his head, “No, Matty, I fucking hate this. I‘m not good at this.” He looks ready to cry and Matty can taste the salt his tears, remembering a summer full of them. “I need you to know something.”

Their hands are still twined. “Go on then.”

“I wish there were two of me. In a world where Armie didn’t exist, it’d be you okay? Nobody else. I know how easily I could fall in love with you. I can see it.”

That isn’t fair, but Matty endures the slight of Timmy’s words to laugh at his own misfortune. “Can’t believe that wanker met you before I did.”

Timmy’s smile is as sad as Matty feels. “That wouldn’t have made a difference.” It’s an inevitable truth that Matty doesn’t need laid out for him but Timmy seems to be working these things through for himself as well. “As soon as I saw Armie, I didn’t want anyone else the same way. I don’t know how to explain it.”

“And you’re sure that he’s what’s best for you?”

There’s no pretense necessary, not between them. “No.”

“So, you kissed me, but you still want him,” Matty interprets, wanting to argue but realizing that it’d be useless. There’s no logic to Timmy’s feelings.

Timmy finally unlinks their hands to wave his about in exasperation. It’s the sort of thing that makes Matty adore him. Timmy doesn’t experience things like a normal person. Instead emotion takes over his entire body, possessing him. He draws out a long necklace with a silver cylinder from inside his shirt to fidget with. Matty knows it to be a gift from Armie. How apt that it would have been hidden between Timmy and himself during their kiss.

“You’ve always known how I feel about him. Even when we dated, you made it seem like, I don’t know, that it was okay that I wanted him more.”

“Fuck me,” Matty exhales, running his fingers through his hair, mohawk already well-fucked by Timmy’s hands. “Thanks for that.”

“Sorry. I’m just confused because I thought you understood me. Like, _really_ understood.”

“You’re incredible, Timmy. You’re brilliant, a fucking stunner, and there’s so many things to love about you — the entire world is going to be mad for you someday.” Matty looks up toward the hazy night sky, anywhere that isn’t Timmy’s collapsing face. “But you’re also a selfish prick.”

“Oh.”

“I wasn’t being disingenuous back then. I knew you needed to sort your Armie shit out. I just hoped maybe you’d see what I did. That we could be good together.”

After saying it out loud, however, Matty questions the validity of that statement. He’d spent the better part of two months trying to be whatever it was that Timmy needed from moment to moment, and while Timmy was caring and affectionate in return, it wasn’t the same. Some of his actions then, and especially now, were fueled by spite and self-righteousness. There was an asterisk next to each and every text, call, kiss.

Over seven months of knowing each other and all Matty has to show for his efforts is the gnawing heartache that’s built and rebuilt a home inside his chest.

“Matty…” Timmy pleads, his eyes glassy. He hugs himself to keep from reaching out again, learning that his touch may no longer be welcomed as it was.

Matty’s glad for that one small mercy. Were Timmy to try kissing him again, out of pity or desire, he would not be able to find the resolve again to pull away. Timmy has always been such a weakness to him; why had he seen his presence as anything else?

He lets the knob of his skull rest against the building. “After Halloween I was fine with just being friends, honestly — we get on really well. Except you kept flirting with me, T. Mercilessly. Because Armie wasn’t giving you what you need, I guess — one person rarely can be everything we need them to be.” He takes a breath, shakes his head, feels the grit of the wall. “Anyway, now you’ve snogged me. So please don’t pretend this is me not understanding you.”

“I didn’t know…”

“Bollocks,” Matty laughs humorlessly, “but it’s fine. I’m happy to be your mate, but I can’t be your stand-in boyfriend anymore. It’s cruel.”

“I don’t want to lose you,” Timmy mutters desperately, soaking up tears with his sleeve.

“You can’t have everything you want. Every action has a reaction. This is mine. I can’t tell you what Armie’s is going to be.”

Timmy makes a pained sound. “Shit.”

Matty betrays his self-preservation to nip Timmy on the jaw with his fingers, going for sweetness. “You have to tell him. A relationship built on lies won’t last.”

A few more tears slip down Timmy’s face and he nods, swallowing whatever he’d wanted to say next. The resolve in his eyes makes Matty feel bad. This isn’t how things were supposed to go; he never meant to cock up Timmy’s special night. Matty leans down to grab the abandoned bottle of wine from the ground. He takes a sip and passes it over to Timmy, a peace offering.

“What a piss take that was, eh?” Matty grins before turning serious. “I didn’t come with any expectations. I really am here to support you.”

Timmy gulps down the last dredges of the wine, a few drips leaking down his chin. Matty has to flex his fingers to swerve the impulse to wipe it away for him. Instead, he watches with mild jealousy as Timmy’s thumb clears the mess.

“I know. I’m still sorry, though.”

“You don’t need to be.”

“But you came all this way.”

Matty laughs. Timmy really has no idea. He takes the bottle to dispose of it before they go back in, speaking over his shoulder on the way to the recycle bin. “I’m not the first, and won’t be the last person who’d do just about anything for you, Timothée.”

-

Before they say goodbye, Matty gets his jacket and waits by the double doors out front of the gallery while Timmy locks up. Once all the lights have been shut off he comes justling out to the pavement with a photobook in hand. “I saved a copy for you.”

Matty smiles, chuffed, and takes the book from Timmy, starting to flip through the pages. It nearly tumbles out of his hands when Timmy pushes his palm flat against the cover, forcing it shut. Matty looks up at him in silent question.

“I wrote a dumb note on the inside,” Timmy mutters, a depth to his stare that Matty isn’t equipped to translate. “Just, read it later or something.”

The air smells like it does when Los Angeles is considering rain. Matty doesn’t think he could handle seeing Timmy caught in it, takes the looming storm clouds as a sign to depart. Closing the book completely, he tucks it against his side under his arm.

“I’m knackered.”

“Me too.”

Stood next to the sandwich board with Timmy’s name on it, they take a long look at each other before stepping forward at the same time to wrap each other up in a hug. Any further exchange of words is unnecessary. Matty feels Timmy grab a handful of his suit jacket on the final squeeze. It’s done.

Matty pulls back first and digs out his nearly empty box of fags from the inside pocket. He offers one out to Timmy who pushes it behind his ear. For later, so he says. They separate, headed in opposite directions then.

“See you around,” Matty waves, walking backwards with the cigarette stick dangling between his lips. “You fucking legend!”

Timmy’s unbidden laugh from down the block isn’t the best end to their time together, but it is enough.

-

Without the excitement and anticipation of seeing Timmy to slow him down, traveling back to the hotel goes by so quickly that Matty hardly remembers the drive. One moment he is pinned by Timmy’s gaze in the alley, and the next he’s swiping his keycard and lobbing his phone onto the neatly made king-size bed.

The sterile silence of his room is even more dreadful than it was when he arrived. Matty makes a beeline for the patio to have another fag and finish up the wine that he’d abandoned earlier in the evening. He takes a seat on one of the flimsy chairs and opens Timmy’s photobook. The inside cover is detailed in nearly illegible scribble and Matty reads the inscription with the muted sounds of Los Angeles down below acting as his soundtrack.

_M,  
None of this would have been possible without you.  
You gave me something I can never give back.  
Love, T._

A flare of anger tells him to put out his cigarette on the touching note, but it passes, leaving him warm and introspective.

What is it about TImmy that Matty just can’t shake? He’s never had so much trouble pasting over one relationship with the next, but returning to England after his summer in the states resulted in, not the end of his feelings for Timmy, but the demise of him and Gabby. No matter what he tried, he just couldn’t rid himself of that beautiful boy in Dakota’s kitchen.

The reason for his devotion slaps him dead in the face after another smoke. His lungs burn alongside his newfound clarity.

Timmy was Matty’s first relationship after overcoming addiction and leaving rehab, still freshly into his recovery. It was the first time in years that Matty had experienced authentic feelings for someone, unclouded by drugs. Just pure connection.

When he considers this revelation, it’s even funnier that they’ve wound up yet another unhealthy addition. Matty’d only discovered new ways to hurt himself.

He chews at the skin of his fingernails, jet lag finally catching up to him. He’s tired, and sad. It feels impossible to stay afloat when all he wants is to wallow. In the past when he’d felt this way, he’d just call someone up and get a fix. Right now, he misses the ease of replacing emotions with drugs, getting high, coming down; it was systematic and effective.

Timmy’s bright smile comes to mind and he thinks about how heroin never pied him off.

“Get a grip,” Matty mutters to himself. He moves back into the hotel room and takes a seat at the edge of the bed, tossing the photobook toward the pillows. His chin drops against his chest in the low light and Matty lets his thoughts roam.

Timmy is at the forefront, of course. He will be for quite a while. Though Matty knows that he should be getting over it, he will allow himself tonight to sink.

Apropos of nothing, his masochistic memory jumps to the first time they’d properly slept together. Before that night it had only been fervent sessions of noshing each other off under the blankets and heaps of grinding. Matty wanted Timmy every way you could want someone but never pressured him into anything more, especially when he was so sad so often about how things went down with Armie.

In the end, and as was often the case, Timmy lead them there. Matty makes a soft sound, playing back Timmy’s thick, lust-heavy voice telling him, “I’ve been thinking, I want to be inside you.”

He can still feel Timmy’s hot breath against his ear, his restless hands leaving invisible prints up the outsides of his thighs, his hips, his neck. They’d made sport out of leaving marks on each other — apparently his didn’t last quite as long.

Matty slumps forward, brushing his palms against the shorn sides of his hair, elbows pressed into his knees. On the next inhale, he finds Timmy’s smell on his shirt. His eyes water.

He has no idea what to do with himself. He should take something and go to sleep. He should  
wake up George. Instead of making a choice, he sits there for ages, until his mobile rattles him out of repose, buzzing against his leg where it’s been laying forgotten.

“Alright, T?” Matty’s heart drops before he’s finished speaking because of the cries that meet his ear. “What’s happened?”

For a fleeting moment, Matty thinks that Timmy might have changed his mind. It’s pathetic, he knows.

“It’s Armie,” Timmy replies with a wet shuddering breath. Matty could laugh. “He fucking — he ended it.”

Matty turns Timmy on speaker and starts taking off his shoes, untying them carefully while he considers what to say. “I’m sorry.”

Timmy breaks with another sob.

“Why’d you call me, Tim?”

His choppy, “I just don’t know what to do,” is a helpless frankenstein of sounds. Matty wants to ask him to come to his hotel room, wants to run barefoot to Timmy’s apartment, wants to hold him or sing him a song, but he can’t. These impulses are exactly what he has to overcome, they aren’t serving either of them. “I told him about the kiss and that asshole wouldn’t even fucking hear me out.”

Matty closes his eyes as he removes his jacket, pulling loose the velvet bow and unbuttoning his white shirt next. His hands are meticulous, his breathing slow. Still, frustration boils over. “I can’t make him love you the way you want him to,” he sighs. “You shouldn’t have called.”

“But — ”

“No, Timmy. I’m sorry you’re hurt, but I’m hurt too. You can imagine what torture this is for me. And yet you call to talk to me about Armie again. Do you think — I don’t know, that your misery overrides everybody else’s?” Matty picks up the phone then to hold it close against his chest, looking down at the contact photo he has saved under Timmy’s number. A sleepy-eyed smile from a diner during tour. “I’m only fucking human, mate. And I can’t help you with this.”

Timmy sniffles over the line. “But this is what we do. I call you and tell you whatever shitty thing that’s happened, and you help me see things clearly, tell me what to do — fuck, I’m losing _everything_.”

“I can’t tell you how to love him either, Timmy,” Matty mumbles, standing shirtless in his hotel room, looking at the bathroom door but not moving toward it yet. “You’ve got to sort your own life out, decide what’s important to you.”

“You’re important to me.” Timmy says it in a whisper that’s just loud enough to make out.

Matty rests his forehead against the heel of his hand. “And you’re important to me. But I can’t do this. Acting out because you’re upset doesn’t negate how it affects other people. Like the kiss, tonight. Like this call. Blood hell, Timmy, you have to stop using your own emotions to justify acting like a tit.”

Timmy doesn’t say anything to that, and while it’s a relief to get off his chest, Matty hopes he hasn’t been too harsh. He’s only ever been patient with Timmy but right now, he needs to protect himself; he’s fucking gutted.

Letting silence seep into the call, Matty pads into the bathroom, flipping on the light but only giving his reflection the barest glance. He looks ragged. Hair beginning to curl, half-moon shadows beneath his eyes. Turning from the mirror, he takes the phone off speaker and presses it to his ear.

“You’re a bad habit,” he says with a tragic smile.

Timmy sniffles through a laugh.

Matty caves into compassion after hearing Timmy suck down another shivery breath. “But you’re gonna be alright. Just pull that beautiful head out of your beautiful arse, yeah?”

“Okay,” Timmy mumbles, and Matty hopes that he’s at least home safe. That he didn’t get into an argument with Armie while still outside the gallery. “Are you going to do any secret shows while you’re in town? I don’t want your trip to be a waste.”

Matty turns on the tap to run a bath, sitting at the edge after to bend down and plug the drain. “It wasn’t a waste,” he tells Timmy softly, and for the moment that feels true, “but I don’t know. Might crash a radio station tomorrow or do something small.”

“Can I come?”

His slacks hit the floor, underwear joining them a moment later. Matty chuckles. “That’s a fucking terrible idea and you know it.”

“You don’t want to see me?” Timmy wants to be sure he isn’t hated, as if anyone could harbor such strong dislike for him.

“You have to stop with this shit. You’re doin’ my head in.” Matty bites down a painful smile, trailing his fingers through the water to test the temperature, “I want to see you but you’re not mine.”

“No,” Timmy agrees with a whimper, his next words drowning in misery. “I’m nobody’s — god, I really fucked up.”

“You’ll be okay,” Matty promises. If having a heroin addiction taught him anything it’s that, unless you’re dead you can be better.

Timmy doesn’t ask if he’s sure. He asks, “Are you in the bath?”

“About to be,” Matty tells him, and in the silence that follows he knows that they are both remembering taking one together at Matty’s place. They’d sat in bubbles, Timmy’s back to Matty’s front, talking until their fingerprints turned to prunes, kissing until their lips were raw with stubbleburn. “I’m gonna let you go.”

“Okay,” Timmy says sadly. “Goodnight, Matty. Thanks for coming tonight. I’m not going to ask when we’ll talk again, but I hope it’s not too far away.”

Matty peels off his socks, tells Timmy goodbye, and gets in the tub. Tomorrow he will look into having an impromptu club show, and the next day he will go home to England to nurse his broken heart, but tonight he allows himself to sink. To associate Los Angeles with shared coffees and unhinged laughter for the last time, and to be foolishly in love with Timothée Chalamet.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> special shout out to tequilatuesdays, you're a saint and we love you.  
& a very happy (early) birthday to eliooliver


	8. give yourself a try

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thanks to everyone for all the sweet comments, messages, etc.  
comment moderation is on going forward.  
-oyb & cpx

For the first 24 hours, the breakup doesn’t seem real. It’s just a bad dream that finds Timmy when he’s due another pill (any kind that’ll numb the pain or put him to sleep.)

It’s not until he climbs into his car late the next day and pulls up his phone contact list does he realize, to full affect, all the bridges he has burned. Instinctively, Timmy wants to call Armie but knows well enough that it’s out of the question. Amber probably won’t have heard what happened yet and Timmy doesn’t want to be the one to tell her; Matty is her friend. Dakota is a write off--she definitely hates him. Saoirse and Greta will too, once news travels.

His recent call list is a cemetery. One kiss has ended his world.

Timmy spends the half-hour drive to his favorite pizza place in tears, muttering insults at himself. The stark difference between being surrounded by friends at his opening and where he finds himself now is unbelievable. And it’s no one’s fault but his own. He can’t bury the blame anywhere else.

When he parks, instead of heading in to pick up his order, Timmy calls one of the only people who might still see his name light up their screen and smile.

Pauline answers sounding like she’d been asleep. “It’s about time you returned my calls,” she says drowsily, “have you been in a post-reception coma?”

She’s living in a universe where Timmy hasn’t ruined everything. He’s quick to destroy it with a quiet sob of admittance. “Armie broke up with me.”

“What?” Her voice sharpens. He can imagine her sitting up in bed, maybe turning on a bedside lamp. “What happened?”

“I, uh, kissed somebody,” Timmy tells her despairingly.

“Timmy, you didn’t…”

“Yeah.”

“Matty?”

He swallows, squeezing out fresh tears. “Yeah.”

“Oh my god.”

“I know,” Timmy sighs, slumping further down his seat, knees cramped underneath his steering wheel. He pulls the strings on the hood of his sweatshirt tight around his chin, starts anxiously chewing on the fabric. If Pauline were in the car with him, she’d slap them out of his mouth and tell him it’s a bad habit. He has enough of those.

The pizza place is going to start thinking Timmy has abandoned his order if he doesn’t go in soon but he probably looks like a fucking basketcase right now. He’s going to scare the employees. Plus, he would rather watch the cold air outside fog his windows while keeping his sister awake. More people need to know what a piece of shit he is.

“Really though, wow.”

“_I know._” Timmy punches at the car’s roof. Crumbles of foam rain down from where the headliner is dissolving. Everything he touches falls apart.

Pauline’s disappointment is clear in her voice. “How did it happen?”

There it is. The million dollar question.

“God. That I don’t know,” Timmy mopes, letting out a huge breath.

He always loved Pauline’s apartment, the way her books and instruments swaddle the living room couch. There’s a turntable against one wall--their grandpa’s--that Timmy had thrown a bitchfit over not getting when he passed away. He can see it all so clearly in his head, the warm memories of her home are the antithesis to what his own has become. All that’s waiting for him when he gets back is a lack of warmth, of color. It’s going to be quiet and unbearable.

“Timmy.”

Frustration overwhelms him. “Things just haven’t been great between me and Armie.” God, it sounds pathetic when he puts words to the ugly feeling that’s been fermenting. It feels bigger than that -- or, it did, anyway. Now he’s not so sure. “I was nervous about the show and--_fuck_. I was sad. That Armie wasn’t there. Or Dakota, or you. But Matty was, which meant a lot--I mean, he’s done so much for me.”

“He has,” Pauline agrees solemnly, wary to interrupt his flow of thought.

“Right? And it was just really nice to see him, and he stayed to help me clean up when the event ended...” Timmy tips forward to rest his head against the steering wheel, holding it with the hand that isn’t attached to his phone. He grinds the crown of his head against the leather, hating himself. Pictures bloom of Matty’s face, so sincere. He’d made time for Timmy and he looked so good and his affection was never hard-won. Matty had done exactly what Timmy had secretly wished Armie would -- make a grand effort to see him, fucking acknowledge how big of a deal this was for him by _being there._

That isn’t fair of him. Matty was right: he is a selfish prick.

“Timmy!”

Straightening up again, Timmy wipes at his wet cheeks. “I wanted to,” he admits quietly in a voice that falters. “I didn’t feel good and I knew that kissing Matty always did. In the moment I wasn’t thinking about anything else. I was being an asshole. Jesus, I’m such an asshole.”

More tears slip down his face as it breaks into something pained. Pauline works to calm him down over the line but there’s nothing anyone can say. After a while she goes silent, never hanging up.

Timmy turns onto his side in the car seat and cries while people go by his window to pick up their dinners. He never had a chance to take Armie here and, barring a miracle, he never will. Timmy feels a hopeless ache in his chest at the realization that this is what it means to truly regret. It’s not like staying up too late or drinking too much, not even cheating on Ansel. None of that meant losing anything significant. Yesterday afternoon’s version of the future is completely gone, he’s re-written his own timeline with a mistake.

Leaving the apartment was stupid. He’s making a scene, even in his car, in the dark. And he’s not even actively hungry, just knows that he should be. Grease and cheese won’t be the best fuel for Timmy’s body right now, but pizza’s warm, doughy embrace will do more for his mood than a green juice from his old work. Plus, he doesn’t think he could handle seeing any of his ex-coworkers’ friendly smiles.

Once Timmy dries out and has checked that his sister is still there, he laughs weakly and soaks up snot with his sweatshirt sleeve, “So yeah, that’s pretty much how the show went.”

“Not ideal,” Pauline sums up neatly, sounding gentle, like their mom. Timmy is waiting for the complimentary lecture about right and wrong to go with her tone, but it never comes. “Did you at least sell a few things?”

“Yeah.” Timmy draws in condensation on the cold glass. The pad of his index finger makes a squelching sound as he curves a frowny face inside a wide circle. “Pretty much everything. Plus, I got a call from Nylon to do another spread, and some bands have reached out about shooting their sets when they roll through town.”

“Way to bury the lead, jackass,” Pauline tells him, clearly grinning. “Congratulations.”

Timmy doesn’t feel as though he’s achieved anything, not when it’s weighed against what he’s lost. “This wouldn’t have happened if you’d been there.”

He’s mostly joking, and his sister is too when she replies, “Sorry I couldn’t make a transcontinental trip to cockblock you.”

“Yeah, you had to go and be a successful thespian.” She’s starring in a play that opens soon; dress rehearsals can’t be missed. “Proud of you,” he mumbles with a sad smile. They’d talked about Timmy flying out for a weekend once the show starts its official run but now the notion feels daunting. Money isn’t the issue -- he has more of it now than he ever has in his life, enough that he could throw away half of yesterday’s earnings and the statement would still be true. The real issue is: he’s scared to leave Los Angeles in his current state, especially to retreat home. Once there, it would be too easy to convince himself to stay.

Through the devastation of his and Armie’s breakup, Timmy still wants to believe that there’s a reason to be here, and somewhere in the back of his mind, he knows that to be true. It’s just difficult to fathom when his favorite things about Los Angeles have vanished. Everything tangible keeping him here is gone.

Belatedly, Timmy realizes that Pauline has thanked him with a self-deprecating breath of laughter. He watches the door of the restaurant open and close once more. His pizza has definitely been tossed by now, but there might still be time to order in another. If the sign is right, they don’t close until midnight.

“I gotta go.”

“Okay,” Pauline answers without protest. Timmy realizes he’s gotten off easy with her but it’s not surprising. His sister has always known when the time called for gentle love or tough; their next call will likely feature the latter approach, when his wounds aren’t so fresh. “Just remember -- ‘Love is the most despairing state of affairs imaginable.’ You’ll be alright, little bro.”

Timmy feels a swelling of tears burn hot behind his eyes again and he wipes at them preemptively. Pauline _would_ think that now is the time to quote french poetry. (Incorrectly, at that, but he doesn’t it in him to be a shit about her phrasing right now.) He scoffs, his heart overwhelmed with love and longing for her. “You’re so annoying. Bye.”

When Timmy ends the call to get his order in, he holds tight to the sound of her laughter, a serving of happiness just out of reach, like everything else.

-

Pizza fills his stomach that second night alone, but it isn’t the kickstart he needs to start coping. With no one reaching out, it’s too easy to sink back into depression. The universe doesn’t notice that Timmy’s world has ended. It keeps expanding while he collapses in on himself.

-

Time rolls him through the week the same way the tide rolls a bloated corpse up the beach.

While Drive Like I Do finishes the last few dates of their tour, Timmy decays, clocking the passing days with his smart tv. At some point, Matty must have packed up his broken heart and gone back to Europe, leaving Timmy entirely alone in this city of millions.

He chooses the couch as his final resting place, mostly because his bed holds too many memories, and stares at his phone, fighting himself on whether to call Armie or not. He spends unaccountable hours drafting full-on conversations between them, tirelessly trying to puzzle out what he could say to make things right. Lists of everything Armie did that contributed to his kissing Matty. Lists of everything Timmy would do if Armie would only forgive him.

He works their last conversation over and over in his mind, stung each time by the hurt in Armie’s voice, bitten by the way he’d instantly shut down, revoking access to the Armie Hammer that Timmy worked so long to unlock. The one he’d found behind Dakota’s bathroom door all those months ago.

Pouring over what he can do keeps Timmy busy, but deep down, he understands that there’s no answer. Because what he did was cheating. Because he’d made Armie think his accusation was unthinkable. But most of all, because it was Matty.

Unfortunately, as time passes, this understanding becomes futile in keeping Timmy good. He gives in to his inherent selfishness on the third or fourth day alone, torturing both he and Armie by calling relentlessly.

Timmy had deluded himself into thinking Armie might be missing him badly enough to answer, to give him enough time to feed Armie a plea, but he doesn’t. Each attempt rings and rings before going to voicemail, where Timmy goes on to fill it with his regrets and negotiations. He begs for anything, even just confirmation that Armie is alive.

At some point, it becomes less about reaching out and more about hearing Armie’s outgoing message. Without any hope that the call might connect, Timmy turns on the speaker and lets his phone trill. Once the ringing stops, he closes his eyes to experience Armie’s low, irritated voice demanding that he _leave a fucking message, if you’re into that sort of thing._

Armie used to have one of the generic robots as his outgoing message but a while back, after a night of doing fuck all, Timmy had gotten a bug up his ass about him needing an actual voicemail and proceeded to pester the shit out of him until he caved and recorded one on the spot.

What Timmy’s listening to is one of the few artifacts from their short relationship. How long before Armie updates it to something new and erases another piece of their history?

Soon Timmy will be reduced to a name that people take care not to mention, or worse, a synonym for disrepute.

Inconsolable, he throws his phone across the room and puts himself to bed with a few pills in the crease of his palm, choosing nothingness over the world.

-

_He let his guard down and you betrayed him._

It’s the thought that greets Timmy when he wakes up with a bloody nose one nameless day. There is a roulette wheel of phrases that take turns cramming themselves into his head upon reaching consciousness, but they all relay the same vibe: _You fucked up and you’re a fuck up._

His pillow has a venn diagram of stains next to his cheek, one of them a brilliant red and the other a dimmer, orangier color. Two bloody noses in the same week. Not enough sleep, or water. Too many drugs.

The time on Timmy’s microwave reads after one o’clock in the morning. He doesn’t remember why he’d been sleeping, if his internal clock was finding its way back to a normal human schedule or if the lapse in wakefulness was man-made again. His short term memory is shot, everything about him frayed around the edges, dulled by lack of sunlight, lack of friends, lack of food. Habitually, he reaches out into thin air, wanting his phone. It’s dead somewhere forgotten, maybe buried in bed, or in the bathroom. It doesn’t matter. There’s no one on the other end of it. The only people who’ve reached out that don’t have to do with his photography are looking for things from Timmy, gossip or a rebound fuck. Anybody who really knows him anymore understands that he isn’t worth their time.

While he is piecing together the present, his nose continues to bleed, painting his face, sticky and warm. He rolls off the couch to pull a bag of peas from the freezer, forgets to close it, doesn’t care.

Then it’s back to the couch, under the blankets, half-dressed. Only a few minutes later it’s too fucking hot for blankets so he’s kicking them off.

Everything annoys him. The heater is up too high but it’s all the way across the room. He’d forgotten to turn off the kitchen light.

By the time the peas defrost and get soggy, Timmy has given up on falling back to sleep without another dose of help. He gets up but not for the heater or the light, only to stick another pill in his head, to wait. To disappear.

The last two weeks have passed in a blur of misery, abandonment, and drugs. Cracking open his laptop while he waits to be pulled under, Timmy realizes that Armie got back into town today. An event reminder pops up as soon as he enters his password, ARMIE’S HOME with a bundle of exclamation marks.

It’s devastating. Timmy slams the screen shut in an effort to crush the feeling it ignites, and stows the computer under the gap between the floor and couch. If he wasn’t such a disaster, tonight would have gone very differently. In another timeline he is reuniting with Armie at this very moment. The many ways they could be celebrating washes over him but just as he thinks he might drown, sleep claims him instead.

-

Getting off post-Armie is impossible.

Timmy bites so hard into his lip that it’s going to bleed. He doesn’t care. All he’s seeking is a short reprieve from the ugliness that’s made its home inside of him. To feel good, even for a few minutes, would be well worth the pain.

His cock is only half hard when he starts stripping it, late one grey afternoon. With his eyes pinched tight, Timmy tries to dip his mind into a selection of images that used to make him burn. At first, it sort of works; a ghost hand that belongs to no one touches him, pushing warm fingers inside. An amorphous partner sucking him off, saliva-slicked lips dragging up and down while a palm rests under his balls.

It’s alright, until the hand inevitably becomes Armie’s, twisting and pressing in exactly the way that Armie’s had when they were too tired to fuck but Timmy was still wanting to be filled. And it only gets worse from there, the hot impression of a mouth becoming the distinct pillows of Armie’s lips, marshmallow soft and so, so plush.

“Fuck,” Timmy grunts, jerking his hand away from his dick. He scrubs his opposite palm over his face and tries to reset. “Not Armie,” he reminds himself, as if his brain would ever deign to obey him. With a deep breath, he spits aggressively into his hand and settles back down into the cushions.

He tries again. Reluctantly, Timmy pulls images up from depths of his mind that he hasn’t bothered to visit in this setting. He thinks about his last film shoot with the actor Lily-Rose and how he’d been able to see the silhouette of her nipples through the sheer shirt she’d posed in. He tries to imagine them in his mouth, how she might taste. His cock twitches, but he’s not sure if it’s out of arousal or desperation.

When not even the mystery of new beauty cuts it, Timmy delves back further, recalling fuzzy memories of Ansel. He struggles to replay the last time they’d fucked, to summon the echo of what Ansel’s cock had felt like buried inside of him, how hard he might’ve come.

It’s no use. Even when he’s able to piece together the basic mechanics of what went down, none of it is colored with any lingering lust. It’s as if Armie fucked out every subpar lay Timmy’s ever had, especially with Ansel.

Without permission, Matty’s hazy smile and dulcet moans fill his mind and instantly his stomach knots. Timmy doubles over thinking he might vomit, his gut turning over with guilt.

It’s more than he can process.

A laundry list of gorgeous past lovers alongside a few potential hookups, and Timmy ends up crying with his pants off instead of reaching orgasm. It’s pathetic.

-

The whole self-isolation thing goes seemingly unnoticed for awhile. Timmy’s phone blows up from time to time, but mostly for work stuff. People wanting to book him for photos. Publications that have seen his book. The gallery requesting that he come pick up the few pieces that didn’t move during the reception; it’s been a month and they’ll be checked into storage if he doesn’t get them soon.

Pauline interrupts his email reply promising to take them home this weekend. Her play opens Friday. If he wasn’t such a flight risk, he’d be there.

“Hello?”

“Timmy.” He can hear it in her voice already, the tough-love rendition of their car conversation from the parking lot. She’d texted him periodically during the interim with Timmy only responding half the time, when he wasn’t too high or too sad. She’d been worried but, per usual, other people’s problems never feel as commanding as his own.

“Hey, Pauline--” Timmy clears his throat to fake liveliness but she doesn’t give him a chance at playing pretend.

“Don’t ‘hey Pauline’ me. You know you’re being such a jerk, Timmy.” He almost laughs because no matter how frequently they argued growing up, Pauline rarely used name-calling as a weapon. She’s always been smarter than that, the best of the Chalamet offspring, hands down. “Stop ignoring my texts, call Mom so she can stop pestering me about you, and eat a damn vegetable. I know you aren’t taking care of yourself over there.”

Timmy starts to protest but before he can even contemplate lying, his phone is trilling with the FaceTime jingle. He answers, but only because he knows what horrors would find him were he to ignore it.

Whatever fire Pauline had started the call with, it dims into compassion as soon as the video connects. Timmy feels her eyes all over his face but whatever she’s thinking, she doesn’t voice. Instead, she exhales a full lungful of air and tells him, “I can drop out of the show and be in LA by tomorrow.”

“What!?” Timmy sits up. He shakes his head, bewildered. “No way.” Pauline’s only response is a stare, prodding him to reluctantly glance at himself in the small rectangle at the corner of his phone screen.

There isn’t a nice way to spin it; he looks pitiful. Sallow skin and bony. There is no elasticity to his cheeks, his smile when he forces one looks brittle and uncanny. His hair is long and limp; touching his shoulders, and his sweatshirt collar has dark spots from where he’s wiped his nose, blood and snot.

Jesus Christ. Pauline isn’t being dramatic; his appearance is scary. The before picture of some heartwarming story, or a bogeyman used by the media to keep kids off drugs. Even so, as touching as it is to know that she’d be willing to throw away her own dream in the face of his distress, there’s no fucking way.

It dawns on Timmy that while he’s spent the past month eating away at his own potential, now he’s fucking things up for his family too. He can’t continue in this vicious black hole of uselessness. For all the mourning Timmy’s done, he doesn’t feel any better about the situation or his choices. Something has to change.

Pauline’s, “I don’t want to worry about you anymore,” is a plea that breaks Timmy’s already battered heart. He doesn’t want her to worry either. Or his parents for that matter; he hasn’t spoken to them in too long.

“I get it,” Timmy says and, for the first time in weeks, he thinks he might be telling the truth -- even to himself. “I’m gonna get my shit together.”

“I know you have people worried about you over there, too,” she ventures softly and though Timmy doesn’t think so, maybe that’s just another lie he’s been telling himself. He shrugs and Pauline leans in closer to the screen, the picture steady on her face. “Promise me you’ll reach out to someone. Please?”

Timmy nods, unable to stop staring at how gross his hair is now that he’s become aware of it; taking a shower just shot up his priority list. “I promise. I love you. I’ll call you tomorrow.”

“You better.”

He will.

They hang up and Timmy’s heart squeezes painfully. He doesn’t have to consider his sister’s request to know who he’s going to reach out to, even if it’s only for them to let his request steep in silence or to plainly suggest that he eat shit. Before he attempts contact with someone other than Armie, however, Timmy is going to take that first step towards self-care and fucking bathe.

-

Forty-five minutes later, Timmy stands naked in front of his bathroom mirror. There are no clean towels so he has to drip dry on the tile, ingesting his vague reflection through the haze of steam that has fogged up the glass. His skin is so pink it’s almost red and he watches with mild interest as one of his palms coasts down his sternum, fingers gliding over the bumps of his ribs and then across his stomach. It rises and falls with each of his slow breaths, his touch dropping to his side just as his fingertips brush up against thick, dark curls.

He’s spent this last month so disconnected from his body, floating through the days, that looking at himself now, is frightening. His cheeks are sharper, his stomach hollow. Timmy is disappointed with allowing himself to walk so closely to the edge of self-loathing. He didn’t leave New York for this. To move somewhere sunny and get addicted to drugs. To break peoples’ hearts and his own.

What would his Nana think, he wonders suddenly, gripping the cold porcelain of the sink. His recent inclination to destroy himself dredges up the last person to take him out at the knees. She wouldn’t have wanted his suffering then and she wouldn’t want it now. And though Timmy finds himself breathing funny at the remembrance of her, he knows that today can be the end of his feeling so unbearably low all the time. It’s allowed to be.

He can fix it.

-

Now that Timmy is approaching human again post-shower, he paces his apartment in a clean hoodie and boxers, taking breaks to have a cigarette on the porch while he considers how to start a conversation with Dakota. A host of different opening lines pop into his head, but all of them are wrong. Maybe too much time has passed. Maybe not enough.

Their dead message thread taunts him, tells him that he’s wasting his time. It’s just another voice in his head, but this one is more easily silenced than some of the others. At this point, he knows that he needs to reach out. He just doesn’t know how.

As the sun sets without any progress, it becomes clear that the perfect opener for this scenario may not exist. On a caught breath, Timmy decides to pull the trigger. He sends out one word.

Timmy:  
_hi._

Then, in the interest of his waning sanity, he sets down his phone. There’s no way she’ll send a response right away. He deserves to be kept on the line.

While Timmy mentally settles in to wait, he isn’t sure how to occupy his time. Wandering over to the fridge, he checks out its contents. Everything smells like it’s grown a pulse so he fills the trash, squeezing a pouch of cinnamon applesauce directly into his mouth once nearly every shelf is empty. After, a mountain of dirty dishes scowl at Timmy from the sink but he avoids eye contact. Rome wasn’t built in a day.

The next minute is spent fitting the trash with a new bag. Timmy wrestles it on eventually but gets frustrated when each time he bends forward to stretch the band, his hair blocks his sight. Tucking it behind his ears used to keep it at bay but at some point over the last month it’s become so long and uncontrollable that even his headbands wont keep it in fully tamed.

A warped glance at himself in the reflection of the microwave taunts Timmy, jolting him with a sudden, pressing desire.

A haircut. He really, desperately needs a fucking haircut.

Once the impulse is there, Timmy is helpless to ignore it. Phone forgotten, he takes to rummaging through his drawers until he finds a shitty pair of long scissors that have started to rust. They look wicked, even as neglected as they’ve been. It only takes a moment’s consideration of slicing them upright in front of his face before he comes to terms with the fact that this isn’t something he can do alone.

A smoke-filled memory materializes of Timmy and his neighbor passing a blunt back and forth one evening last summer. While the roach ate itself between their fingers, Timmy swears he mentioned something about cutting his little cousin’s hair.

Right now, that spotty memory is enough.

Jumping into a pair joggers and across the walkway in thirty seconds, he strikes a deal with his neighbor, Will: a haircut for shooting his cousin’s senior photos. Ordinarily, Timmy might argue his rates, but Will has fed him enough drugs during their time as neighbors and if he doesn’t lose a few inches of hair in the next fifteen minutes he’s going to explode.

“Alright, come in. I have a chair in the front room.” Will looks down. “No shoes?”

Timmy shrugs and smiles like a maniac, hunching his shoulders to walk inside. The zip of excitement that trills down his spine is the first in a month and it’s electrifying; he’d forgotten the simple joy in being alive.

-

Back at his own place, Timmy wraps his fingers around the bare skin at the nape of his neck. It’s so foreign, the sensation of being openly exposed in so long. He has gooseflesh.

Give or take, four inches of brown hair is curled on Will’s hardwood floors right now. The face that had greeted Timmy once he’d set down the scissors was still wrongly pale and sunken, but there was a light in his eyes again.

The exhilaration and newness of making one tiny, positive change is enough motivation to chance a glance at his phone, face down on his little round table.

There is a response. Timmy’s heart highdives onto his stomach.

Dakota:  
Fucking finally. Can I come see you now?

A smile swells inside of him and though it never surfaces, his eyes do water with relief. Without thinking, he types out a shaky reply

Timmy:  
yes please

-

They make plans to hang out the next day but Timmy doesn’t know how to even begin preparing his apartment for company. It looks like the setting of a post-apocalyptic horror movie, the kind with roaches and zombies, where people break into abandoned homes in search of canned goods and expired Tylenol.

It’s like he’s forgotten the location of the building’s laundry room. Dirty clothes have exploded all over the place; he’s down to his rattiest underwear. But when Timmy makes an effort to prepare a load, he immediately unearths one of Armie’s sweaters that he’d stolen on a cold night and breaks down, wilted over the empty laundry basket on the couch.

That discovery brings his desire to clean to a halt, because picking up will inevitably mean coming face to face with more of Armie. Parts of him are lurking all over Timmy’s apartment, buried in shallow graves underneath his mess.

The only place untouched by squalor is his dark room. It’s spotless because of Timmy’s clinical lack of interests and because there are prints of Armie hanging up with a few others he’d shot in the last few months. He and Dakota could hang out there when she comes over, amidst the acrid smell of fixer and the maze of tables. It would be cramped and strange, but at least she wouldn’t have to marinade in the physical manifestation of Timmy’s depression.

In the end, however, she lands right on the couch in the main room where he’s cried and bled and slept, because she’s always accepted him, even the very worst parts, and Timmy’s been a fool to think she wouldn’t, even now.

-

He’s watching Netflix while waiting for Dakota’s arrival, eyes on the show but his mind reliving a memory of being high on life, and love, and lesser things, when he and Armie had bought his TV together last Thanksgiving. He’d been worried then about the warranty, about it lasting two years without one. It’s funny to know now that it’s going to outlast their relationship, that his concern should have been with a different lifespan.

Timmy twists the remote in his clenched fists, warping the plastic, but before he can throw the damn thing across the room, his front door pushes open. The wry desire for it to be an armed robber intent on leaving no witnesses comes and goes.

In his moping, he’s lost track of time..

Timmy’s voice is hoarse from chain-smoking and disuse. “_Dakota._”

She’s a fucking vision, per usual, fresh and tousled in a white sweatshirt and lightwash jeans out of place in his pigsty. Speaking of, her eyes rove the scene and him, and if her expression leaves anything to interpretation, her tone does not. “Timmy. What. The. Fuck.”

Angry but with a depth to it, the foundation for her upset has cracks--she’s been worried.

Timmy feels like an asshole all over again. Even when he does nothing, he’s actively hurting people. His baby steps towards healing haven’t been enough.

Hands limp at his sides, he does a pathetic half-shrug and she growls, dropping her bag to the ground, telling him, “god, you’re such a jerk,” before crossing the room to crash against him. They hug like they haven’t seen each other in years, and truthfully, that’s what this time shut away from his life has felt like.

“I know,” Timmy whimpers into her chest, his head bowed and pressed as close to her as possible. He breathes her in, locks his hand over his wrist to pull her close, tears springing to his eyes. Dakota’s recent absence from his life is suddenly gaping and unbearable. There is nothing to dull the ache of it now that he’s seen her in the flesh.

“I’m serious. You’re an idiot.”

“I know.”

“Dumbest shit you’ve ever pulled.”

“Yeah.” Timmy turns his head and just nods against her neck. At first he thinks she means Armie, but when her embrace tightens, he knows she’s referring to what he’s done to himself since. He feels the exhale from her chest and relishes in it. He’d missed being hugged, even if it comes with a scolding.

“I love you,” she says after a long hold, Timmy pulling away because he can hear the _but_ that’s sure to follow. He’s scared he’s about to be broken up with again, that his fears will be realized--by losing Armie he’s lost everyone else too, a line of dominos that all go down with one push. Dakota strokes bouncy curls away from his forehead and leans in to kiss his skin. “But it’s not the end of the fucking world, Timmy.”

“I kind of wish it was,” is his piteous response. He’s spent all his time since the breakup lost in an alternate reality, throwing back pills, smoking and snorting whatever would make reality feel _less_. It’s not that he wants the world the end -- just that he wouldn’t mind if it did. Everything is temporary, anyway.

“Oh, babe.” Dakota slips her hand into his and ushers them over towards the couch, his casket. Before they sit, she uses the heel of her boot to scrape off the mutation of clothing that has congealed to the cushions, but then she plops down readily.

The recycled air he’s been living in can’t be pleasant, plus whatever smells his nose has gone blind to, but Dakota doesn’t appear bothered by either. Her only focus is on Timmy. Once they’re seated, she drags him as close as possible, wanting to pet his hair, to hold his leg.

They chat for a few minutes about nothing, catching up like there’s been no reason for their radio silence, slipping right back into their old rapport. She tells him about a kid taking a shit at the AMPM on Sunset yesterday, shares a photo of a dog from her run this morning, tries to explain the heavenly taco bar she found with Jack down in San Pedro. Then she grabs him by the shoulders, stares him right in the face, and tells him, “that’s enough small talk. Now we’re going to fucking clean.”

Timmy sticks out his tongue, melting at the idea, but he can’t say no to Dakota right now, or ever for that matter. “You’re the boss,” he says, gathering some resolve, and nods like she’s just pressed him into service.

She pinches him obnoxiously on the cheek before pushing away from the couch and walking back to where she’d left her bag by the door. Then, like she’s Mary-fucking-Poppins or something, Dakota unzips her oversized purse and withdraws more cleaning product than Timmy thinks could physically fit into her El Camino, let alone her bag.

It’s absurd, but it’s also one of the sweetest things anyone has ever done for him. Dakota knew he’d buried himself, and she was going to help dig him out.

-

When you’ve been living six feet under for so long, the sun can be blinding.

Four hours later, Timmy’s shame cave is an apartment again. The dishes are put away, the kitchen counter is bare. His bed is a bed again and his couch is a couch, and his clothes have been folded and fed into drawers or sent to be laundered. The floor produces three pairs of shoes he’d been missing and only one photostrip of himself and Armie at a karaoke bar that cripples him.

The blinds are open, reminding him that Spring approaches, that soon the sand at the beach will be warm and Timmy will want to stretch out in front of the waves. Los Angeles still has much to offer him, and Dakota’s company is not the least of it.

She looks only slightly frazzled at the end of it all, with a few flyaways and a sheen to her forehead that looks more like a glow than what it is: sweat. Timmy looks at her standing next to the door like she hung the moon. He feels better than he’s felt in a long time, maybe even longer than he wants to admit.

Somehow having squirreled away all of her cleaning weapons back into her bag, Dakota lets out a dramatic breath, grinning. “Now I’m headed home to have Jack powerwash the grime off of me.”

Timmy feigns offence, “Hey!” to which Dakota only pins him with a look. “Okay, fine. It was bad.”

“It was. But it’s not going to get that way again, right?” She’s pointing at him.

Timmy shakes his head. He rolls back down his sleeves, their work complete but when her hand is turning the door handle, he finds himself speaking again, unable to suppress the topic of Armie any longer, _needing_ to talk about it.

“...Dakota?”

Her eyes flash over to him and instantly he knows that she’s read his mind. “Timmy,” she replies, mirroring his gentle tone. “I was thinking that we would talk about all of that stuff next time we see each other. Later this week?”

He should just nod and let her leave--she’s already done too much for him--but the idea of spending a few more days without emotionally moving forward terrifies him. He’ll slide right back into the hole she’s just hauled him out of if they leave it at this. “Please,” he whispers.

She sets down her bag again and ushers him back over to the couch, sitting at one end and pulling Timmy down with her. He lays down with his head in her lap, closing his eyes while she combs back his hair with her nails, massaging his scalp.

“I just want him back,” Timmy breathes shakily, not trusting his voice. “I know I fucked up but I just miss him so bad.” A tear leaks out of the corner of his eye, rushing back into his hairline.

Dakota traces its path with her thumb. She’s staring down at him when his eyes open, her red lips and tiny gap a sight to behold. “Did you know that I warned Armie not to mess with you back when you first started hanging out?”

“What?” Timmy feels a flare of indignation jolt him but she smothers it quickly, pressing on.

“I knew what he was like and I was convinced that he was going to fuck you over and break your heart.” Timmy’s weary features--red-rimmed eyes, dark circles, chapped lips--attest to half of that fear being true, although not in the way she meant. “He did it all the time, not knowing or not caring about how other people felt. But Timmy, he’s so goddamn in love with you.”

_Was,_ Timmy wants to point out, but instead he gives in to a sudden burst of anger. It might be the lack of sleep, or more likely the come down from all the substances he’s been self-medicating with, but whatever the reason, Timmy feels raw and incensed in a way he hasn’t allowed himself since Armie ended things over the phone.

“Is he?” he snaps, rolling off of the couch and onto his feet. Dakota’s frown twitches, chin tilting to spectate his dramatics. “So fucking in love with me that he forgets to call when there’s hundreds of miles between us? So in love with me that something as simple as, I don’t know, FaceTiming me when we’re apart for weeks at a time is like, fucking, pulling teeth?” His heart burns and so do his eyes, tears welling up while Timmy fights them down. “I don’t even know anything about his family, D. He wouldn’t introduce me to them. That’s a red fucking flag--I was never a priority. It’s like, he never saw us as a real thing. And I couldn’t just blindly cling to him anymore. He gave me nothing to go on.”

“That’s bullshit and you know it,” Dakota says once he’s paused for breath. “And it’s not my place, but Armie has a reason for keeping you and his parents separated. They aren’t exactly approving of his choices.”

“And?” Timmy shrugs meanly, unable to backpedal from his scorn. “Everybody’s got their shit.”

“Yeah, and this isn’t yours. I hope this isn’t why you kissed Matty. He still chose you over them, Timmy. He spent Thanksgiving and Christmas with you. That’s real.”

Timmy cuts out air, hot tears rolling down his face, more out of frustration than anything else. What she’s saying makes sense, but it doesn’t change the way he’s felt. It doesn’t even chip away at that particular cavity.

When a few tense seconds go by, Dakota tugs him back down, forces him to look at her when he hides his face, choking out a huffy sigh.

“I’m sure you had problems,” she says in a measured voice, “everybody does. And you didn’t deal with them the right way, but get a fucking grip.”

Timmy glares at her unfairly, biting at the delicate skin inside his lip.

“I know you wish things hadn’t gone this way, but you’re going to be okay. You still have people who love you. You still have an incredible career, that’s taking off by the way--I saw that blurb in the L.A. Times about your show. The mourning period doesn’t have to stop, but you can’t let it consume you anymore.” She reaches out to wipe his cheek. “It’s been almost a month. You’re not making any kind of statement by punishing yourself for what’s happened. Now, we’ve cleaned your apartment. You’re going to call me regularly, like before. Pick your skinny ass up and start moving again.”

Everything she’s saying tracks, but Timmy can’t imagine carrying on as though he isn’t now missing a crucial piece. “I just want to be able to talk to him, in person. It feels so fucked up that everything happened while he was away.”

“So ask for that,” Dakota suggests with a shrug.

Timmy laughs humorlessly. “He won’t answer my calls. He doesn’t want anything to do with me.”

“No,” Dakota agrees easily, which fucking hurts, “but you should try again. I’ll let him know that it’s not to get back together or anything.”

Okay, that hurts too. Timmy shuts his eyes, head down. “I’m such an idiot.”

“That’s not new information,” Dakota smirks gently, combing his tangles back away from his face. “All we can do when we fuck up is learn from it.”

“How did you and Jack do it? The distance, I mean.”

Dakota makes a thoughtful sound. “It’s hard,” she admits, “but I know that when we’re apart it’s only temporary.”

“And you’re not worried he’s going to do something?”

“Jack? No,” Dakota balks, adding quickly that, “Armie wouldn’t have either, though I can understand why you’d worry.”

The allowance that Armie isn’t a perfect angel lifts Timmy’s spirits. “Right?”

“It still doesn’t excuse what you did.” And just like that, they’re in the dirt again, but she’s not mining too deep in his sins. “You’ve got a wandering eye, kid,” Dakota tells him, kissing his crown of hair. “Everybody kinda sucks. You have to just pick a person you really like and make it work, don’t go looking for the bits you’re missing in other people--god, poor Matty.”

Timmy throws an arm over his face. That’s two friends of Dakota’s that he’s fucked over, and here she thought that Armie was the wolf in sheep’s clothing. “That was so shitty of me. I hope he’s okay.”

“He will be,” Dakota stresses with a reassuring squeeze, and all Timmy hears is that he _isn’t_. Timmy’s selfish grab at happiness has caused so much fallout. And most of it he can’t clean up, just has to learn to live with.

He simply nods, his arm still over his eyes as he lulls his skull from side to side. Dakota drags her hand up and down his thigh in an affectionate way, making the corners of his mouth twist slowly into a sad excuse for a smile.

“Okay, you can leave now. I’ve taken up enough of your time with my mopey bullshit” he says after a few minutes, reaching out to slot their hands together, looking at their laced fingers on his leg.

Dakota laughs, tenderly squeezing. “Anytime. Just promise to peel my ass from the sofa when I envitably fuck up too, alright?”

“Duh.”

Timmy would do anything for her but is also fully aware that she’s only speaking in solidarity. Even though she doesn’t have the best track record either, he can tell that what Dakota and Jack have is the real deal. They figured it out where he and Armie fumbled, and underneath his envy, he really is happy for them.

“So, I gotta talk about the hair,” Dakota says softly, tilting her head from side to side. Timmy feels bare under her gaze but it’s wholly a welcomed feeling, being seen. Nervously he tries to flatten his reinvigorated curls, springier without the dead weight of his split ends. “A haircut is like, step one in break up recovery. Proud of you.”

Timmy laughs a bit, scrunching his nose. “Hey, at least I didn’t give myself asymmetrical bangs or bleached tips.” Dakota responds with a gasp and a slap to his arm.

“You ass! I showed you that picture in confidence! We made an oath to never speak of it again.” She slaps him a few more times, scandalized.

“Okay okay, fine.” Timmy face feels strange from smiling so sincerely. He pets a hand over his curls once again, fingers finding skin quickly. “Does it look that bad?”

Dakota scoffs, rolling her eyes. “Oh please.” Reaching over, she laces her fingers into each side of his hair and gives a firm tug. “It should be illegal to have your face. But, you need to fucking eat. You look like an anorexic cherub. It’s confusing.”

“Thanks,” Timmy chuckles sheepishly and adds, “yeah, I will.”

After that, they exchange I Love Yous and one threat to remain in contact, and Dakota leaves.

As soon as she’s gone, Timmy is blanketed by exhaustion. Today was the most physical and social activity he’s had in too long, and while it’s done wonders in resetting him, it’s also absolutely leveled him.

He chows down on a prepackaged salad, another treasure from Dakota’s magical bag, and passes out right around sundown, sleeping in his bed again. The sheets don’t smell like Armie anymore, but before that ache can bloom into despair, he’s out.

A full twelve hours later, Timmy rises at a respectable hour free from the brain fog he hadn’t even recognized being lost in. Swimming in appreciation, he sends Dakota a pink heart emoji and rolls out of bed. The inclination to fuse with the couch and watch dumb tv all day is present, but he pushes past it to shower and get dressed, setting about completing two crucial errands today: picking up pieces from the gallery and grocery shopping.

Both are accomplished without fanfare, but by the time Timmy arrives back home around ten in the morning, he is stuck on Dakota’s suggestion to reach out to Armie. He owes it to himself to start moving forward again, but he can’t yet bring himself to stop dwelling on what he’s lost.

She’d said that she would talk to him. Had she done that yet? Was she really going to?

Timmy makes organic stovetop mac and cheese for lunch and contemplates whether it would be totally insane to try contacting Armie. He’s running out of chances, too many more messages and Armie will probably block him.

He eats at his small table and washes his dishes afterwards, his mind on Armie but his body working towards his promise of being an actual person instead of merely mold slow-growing in a petri dish.

It’s dark out before Timmy’s willpower hits empty. The gas light had been on since suffering an aching dream during his afternoon nap.

Perched outside with a cigarette, Timmy waves idly at Will’s silhouette across the way, then stares down at his phone.

The message is there, waiting for his resolve to fail. It’s been there since three o’ clock. A fleck of ash lands on the screen, making the sentence look wrong.

He takes a breath. He presses send.

Timmy:  
armie please. just let me say sorry

Before he’s even lowered his phone, Armie replies. Timmy’s hands shake and he forgets about the cigarette slipped between his knuckles.

Armie:  
What’s the point?

The grey text bubble is the first break in a humiliating string of blue, blue, blue, blue. Timmy stares at it, absolutely vibrating. It’s the first response after a month of silence, and while it isn’t friendly, it also isn’t _no_. It feels like fresh blood is pumping through his veins for the first time in a while.

Timmy makes the text conversation dance, scrolling the page nervously with his thumb. He’s staring down at himself from thousands of feet in the air, feeling everything from a mile away. If he says the wrong thing, Armie will freeze him out again, but because he answered right away, Timmy doesn’t want to give himself a chance to think. He goes on instinct alone.

Timmy:  
i want to apologize in person. you deserve to hear it and it will help me

Armie:  
Help you what?

It’s hard not to fill in what he might be doing right now, at 9:00 PM on a Monday. Maybe he’s paused band practice to get back to Timmy. Maybe he’s just bored and on his phone, flipping between Tinder and this. The thought stings but he squashes it quickly.

Timmy:  
move on

Timmy doesn’t believe in his reply, but he hopes that it will get him in the room with Armie. At this point, he wouldn’t dare hope for anything else.

Armie:  
This isn’t going to be a repeat of last time.

He doesn’t need to ask for clarification as to what Armie means by _last time_. The memory of it assaults him: a heartstopping kiss that he wouldn’t let Armie out of. The silent walk back to his room in his new apartment where he’d moved to get away from Timmy. Their first time together.

With his forehead resting in the palm of his hand, Timmy breathes out. Then he hisses in pain, the cigarette suddenly biting him. It’s burned down to a forgotten stub between his fingers, leaving two pink, angry scorch marks in the valley of his middle and index knuckle, sure to scar.

He breathes once more, distracted. Timmy can see Will out of the corner of his eye, low music coming from his place. A head tilt communicates a question, but Timmy waves it off, _I’m fine._ Will got a shorthand version of what went down when Timmy got his haircut, and has taken to casually checking in when they spot each other. It’s nice, but right now Timmy’s focus is drawn to a pinpoint.

Armie’s demands are plain to see. He taps out a white flag.

Timmy:  
i promise not to touch you. i just really need to talk.

-

Everything he owns is ridiculous, or maybe it’s that there’s no dress code for meeting with your ex. Whatever the case, despite Timmy’s laundry no longer growing fungus, he can’t find anything that works.

After an exhaustive search, he winds up stuffing himself into a pair of skinny jeans that are slightly too big. They hang off his hips in a way that Armie has teased him about in the past, but Timmy tries not to rub against the memory, knowing that it leads somewhere that he shouldn’t go today. A black hoodie so faded that it’s basically gray and a sloppily tied pair of Vans complete the look. Worst case scenario, he burns the entire outfit later tonight.

It feels like he should tell someone where he’s going today, but Timmy’s almost afraid to. It’s like, if too many people know he and Armie are going to see each other, the universe will become wise to it and intervene. He doesn’t want any unknown variables--just the two of them, alone, to talk.

There isn’t a word for the order of nerves he feels on the drive over to Armie’s place. Timmy runs a stop sign and almost hits a pedestrian on their bike. He plays his Spotify on shuffle, but couldn’t tell you one song that plays. His head is a nest of bees. At the apartment complex, he has to re-park a few times before he’s angled right for his space. His knees are weak. His hands are sweating. He should’ve worn different clothes, never cut his hair. His entire life up until this moment has been one long winded fuck-up.

“Don’t screw this up too,” Timmy mutters to himself before climbing out of his car.

April showers only make him more damp and uncertain once he’s outside. He pulls the strings of his hood so that his sweater is pinched around his face for the long walk from the rear of the complex where guests can park. Timmy doesn’t look for Armie’s Altima in his apartment’s covered spot. He’s already being unmade by the familiarity of being here; the mundane sight of Armie’s car put away where they’ve approached it dozens of times to go get food or meet up with Dakota would be intolerable.

At the top of the stairs, Timmy wrangles his breathing. He stares at the rusted metal on the door. 23B. He remembers the first time he saw the brass numbers and wants to puke, wondering if this will be the last. Next door, the neighbor’s cat is staring through the blinds at him and when he smiles, sad and hopeful, it blinks indifferently.

The sky cracks then, dumping out rain. Timmy’s head stoops towards the door in an effort to hide underneath the overhang. There are too many voices in his head, too many fears. He knocks without looking up.

Water pools around the soles of his yellow sneakers. Dirt from the cement lifts off, swirling in specks.

The front door jerks open and Timmy goes numb.

When he looks up, Armie is there in the open doorway. His brain short circuits at the familiarity of the same haircut. Same black t-shirt. Same tattoos.

For a singular moment, it feels like waking from a bad dream to find yourself safe in bed; for a few seconds it feels like coming home. Then Timmy sees the differences and spirals. Armie has a black eye and a new tattoo and if Timmy hadn’t fucked up so spectacularly, he’d know the stories behind both. Though it’s what he wants, this isn’t a homecoming; they’re not living the same life anymore.

Time ticks by, insignificant before but now every second is precious. Neither of them have said anything so Timmy goes first. “Hey. You look good.”

Armie sighs, exhausted with him after all of four words. “Hi, Timmy.”

Maybe this was a mistake. Timmy stares into the mask of Armie’s handsome face, and then away, looking around. The cat from next door is gone, off to lick its own asshole rather than witness the painful interaction taking place here. “Can we go inside? It’s starting to rain sideways.”

“Yeah.” Armie turns around and walks in, leaving Timmy to trail after him and close the door himself. He bends down and pulls at his laces, not because _shoes off_ is a house rule but because Armie is in socks and he doesn’t want any pretense of having the upper hand.

“Where’s Jack?” He asks, pulling his hood down to shake out his short curls.

“Where any normal person would be on a Tuesday at 2:30 in the afternoon.”

“So work,” Timmy supplies, earning a look. The apartment is just as he remembers. Armie’s massive shoes have been kicked off under a coffee table. Jack’s blu-rays are stacked on every available surface. Dakota has a jacket pooled on the counter. Every inhale smells familiar. Timmy burns with self-hatred.

Armie stands in the middle of the room, arms folded over his chest. The fresh tattoo on the top of his forearm is a mermaid. Simple face. Tits out. He catches Timmy looking at it, careful eyes travelling higher then, taking Timmy’s curiosity as the okay to be appraising himself. “You cut your hair.”

Timmy can’t help running his hand over the back of his head, intensely insecure under Armie’s scrutiny. “Yeah, I thought it was time for a change.”

If Armie has an opinion about it, he keeps it to himself. It makes Timmy miserable to consider that he’ll never know whether Armie likes it or not.

“So.” Armie’s tone is steel. “What did you want to talk about?”

“You know what,” Timmy sighs, arms dropping back to his sides. He wants to take a step forward but doubts he could weather Armie flinching or taking a reactive one back. “I wanted to talk about it in person, I haven’t seen you in forever.”

“And whose fault is that?” Armie cuts out.

Timmy swallows. “I’ve wanted to come over since the minute you got back to LA.”

“That’s not what I mean.”

“No,” Timmy shakes his head, willing Armie to listen, even if he doesn’t want to talk, “but it’s true. I miss you so much. It’s stupid how much I miss you--It eats away at me…” Timmy’s words can’t find a direction. He fumbles and pulls back. “But, I’m learning to live with it.”

Armie’s expression doesn’t shift. His jaw is tight, the bruise at the top of his nose bridge makes it look like he’s blushing; it’s the only kind thing about his appearance right now, and it’s a lie.

Trying another angle, Timmy drops the heavy matter at hand. Plus, he can’t pretend he isn’t curious. “Who’d you fight this time?”

Armie blinks. “What are you talking about?”

Timmy touches his own eye socket because he’s not allowed to touch Armie’s. Armie mirrors the gesture, brow crumpling until he remembers his injuries.

“Oh.” He inspects them further, feeling out a cut in his eyebrow. Then his hand falls away. “It wasn’t a fight--well. I started boxing.”

“Boxing?” Timmy asks, if for no other reason than to distract himself from the picture it conjures. No shirt. Sweat. Taped wrists. _Jesus._

Armie shrugs, “Yeah, twice a week. Apparently I have anger issues.”

They both exhale a flicker of laughter at that, but Armie’s guard doesn’t waver. The conversation doesn’t stumble forward.

Armie is waiting for something from him, a speech maybe. Unless he’s simply getting off on watching Timmy squirm. Regardless, nothing about his body language is yielding. He makes no effort to break the tension, doesn’t offer Timmy something to drink, doesn’t sit down at the table or on the couch.

Timmy takes it for awhile, weathering the awkward silence, his breath the loudest thing in the room.

Eventually, though, he breaks.

It isn’t fair. All their fighting, their hang ups, even kissing Matty, shouldn’t negate the blinding connection that they’d had. The cold absence of it in the room is senseless. “I don’t get it.”

“Okay.” No reaction.

Something that tastes like anger fills Timmy’s mouth. He may be a fuck up but he doesn’t deserve to be written off so easily. Armie can’t just stand here and pretend they never mattered.

“It doesn’t make any fucking sense.” Timmy is all too aware of his own voice, how it pitches and warbles in glaring contrast to Armie’s composure. “How can you look at me like that? With _nothing_. You won’t even talk to me. I’m not a monster, Armie--I made a mistake.” He pulls a thin breath. “How can you have stopped loving me in a matter of weeks?”

Armie’s mouth melts into a small frown. He shakes his head and Timmy steps closer, reaching out. “Is that what you think?”

Timmy squares his shoulders, circles his fingers tightly around Armie’s wrist and yanks him in, wants to shake him out of this false calm, wants to scream. “No, it’s not. I love you and I’m pretty fucking sure, somewhere deep down, you still love me too.”

Armie meets his eyes without tilting his chin, sharp blue cutting down the bridge of his nose. He shrugs Timmy off. “That doesn’t make it a good thing.”

It’s an empty victory, hearing Armie admit that how he’s acting isn’t how he feels. Timmy wraps his rejected embrace around himself, grimacing. Indignation isn’t holding him together, it’s not going to keep in the tears.

He wants to speak but then Armie’s breathing does something complicated that prompts him to stay quiet.

The ice maker in the fridge grumbles from the kitchen.

“I thought that we’d--” Armie sucks in a choppy breath, stopping again, frustrated. “I don’t know. I guess I thought we were it, you know? But we weren’t, so fuck it.”

The notion takes Timmy aback. He’d never mused on domestic things like marriage or kids but whenever he’d looked into the future, Armie had always been there. It feels like he’s being robbed of more than he’d even realized was his. “Did you? Would we have—”

Armie cuts Timmy off before he has a chance to finish speaking. “Fuck you for asking a question like that.” He throws his arms out as if to illustrate everything they’ll never share. “You don’t get to ask about our future, Timmy. You’re the one who made sure we’d never have one.”

Timmy doesn’t resist the urge to cry that slaps him after Armie’s pained outburst. He’d almost prefer the cold shoulder to this, to watching the consequences of his actions play out in the grit of Armie’s teeth, in his hateful snarl. This conversation is the death of hope, and though Timmy hadn’t come here with the intention of begging Armie to take him back, now that the ink is drying on this being how things go, tension and silence between them where there used to be love, he can’t face it.

“I think you should leave,” Armie says after a lapse of silence. While Timmy is scrambling to arrange his thoughts, it’s clear that Armie doesn’t want any more of his own to leak out. He’s damming back emotion in real time.

“Not yet,” Timmy tells him thickly, “I’m not leaving without apologizing. Can’t I explain myself?”

Armie laughs, leaning back. “You don’t need to explain anything, I get it.”

“Oh, do you?” Timmy snarks back before he can check the impulse.

Armie stares him down.

It’s a contest that Timmy’s born to lose. His temper forces his hand into making a mistake. Wetting his mouth, Timmy quietly points out that, “us breaking up isn’t just on me.”

Amusement clouds over Armie’s scowl. He lifts his eyebrows, encouraging Timmy to continue. Not that he needs Armie’s fucking permission.

Timmy counts off a handful of his transgressions, still teary-eyed but with a level voice. “You ignored me. You shut me out of important shit when you could have included me. You just, fuck, you weren’t there, Armie. It was like having a long-distance relationship, even when you were home. I didn’t feel important to you anymore. I mean, you even hid me from your parents.”

“Fuck off,” Armie spits at the last infraction. He turns to walk away before deciding against it. His hand slices down through the air. “You don’t know what the hell you’re talking about, so stop.”

Timmy won’t be intimidated. His own hurt and anger is double the height that Armie has on him. “Your parents live in town and I’ve never met them! We spent the holidays with my family in New York. You went to my Nana’s funeral.”

“You’re welcome,” Armie says, purposefully shitty.

Clawing a hand into his own hair, Timmy breathes out through his nose. “It made me feel _temporary_.”

Armie shakes his head, eyes blazing.

It’s only one item on the list that lead Timmy to stray--most of them being his own shortcomings--but Timmy won’t have it overlooked.

“My parents...” Armie starts, searching for how to finish his thought. What he comes up with brings Dakota’s comment about leaving it alone to the forefront of Timmy’s mind. “They don’t love me the way your parents love you.”

Oh.

Timmy softens, asks “What does that mean, exactly?” but Armie, he hardens.

“Who gives a fuck. We’re working on it now, but there’s no point in talking about it with you.”

_With you._

Timmy flinches, fully wilting in the face of this new information. It doesn’t change how he was feeling before the breakup, but it’s still eye-opening. If only he’d known sooner, though that sort of thinking causes more despair than closure. How much more regret can his body withstand?

Unfortunately, Timmy’s need to get a dig in has reignited Armie’s cruelty. He goes firmly back on the offensive.

“It makes me physically ill to even look at you,” Armie says, with feeling. “No matter what you think I did to deserve it, I can’t close my eyes without seeing Matty’s mouth on you, touching you.” He scrubs a hand back over his buzzcut, a gesture meant to steady him--it doesn’t. “I dream about it, can you believe that shit? And even though you’re here because you’re ‘sorry,’ I know you fucking liked it. Don’t tell me you didn’t.”

Timmy is thrown by Armie bringing up the elephant in the room out of nowhere--actually, it’s probably always there, sitting heavy in the back of his thoughts. Guilt smothers Timmy’s instinct to defend himself. He opens up to respond, to lie, but his words are prematurely washed away by an interrogation.

“Why _him_?” Armie wants to know. “How did it happen? Where were you?”

Once they’ve veered onto this path, Armie tears down it. The inquisition goes on and on until Timmy feels like he’s going to be sick. It’s his biggest fear realized after the kiss happened. Even when he’d begged Armie to hear him out, part of Timmy had been relieved that he’d never been given the chance. The more details Armie hears from the night, the more his idea of Timmy will be poisoned; Timmy will never be able to extract it all. Lying feels like his only option, but it won’t get them anywhere.

Terror crawls into every vein but so does an inevitable calm, acceptance that the truth is the only thing he can offer anymore. “I’ll tell you whatever you want to know,” Timmy says soberly, and quickly commits this image of Armie to memory, strung with anger and still devastatingly handsome. It will, no doubt be the last he sees. Whatever happy memories of Timmy that might still linger in Armie’s memory will be excised and replaced by the rest of this conversation.

Armie goes completely still, unsettling and large in the yawning space between them. There’s no hesitation in his voice, the question already locked and loaded. “Did _you_ kiss _him_?”

It’s a memory that’s been blurred by his own misery, but Timmy tries his best. “Maybe. It just sort of happened, mutually.” Armie scoffs and Timmy flounders. “I know that sounds like bullshit but it did. It was just, like, a moment.”

“Cute. Did you fuck?”

“What, no. It didn’t go that far.”

“But you wanted it to,” Armie presses. “Why’d you stop?”

Timmy shakes the accusation out of his head, still feeling the absence of his hair’s weight. “It really wasn’t like that.”

“You’re the one that screwed me over, Timmy. The least you can do is answer my goddamn questions. Be honest for once in your life.”

Closing his eyes, Timmy takes a slow breath and admits to Armie that, “Matty stopped it.”

“God, you’re a piece of shit.”

“I know.”

Armie looks at him, and Timmy wonders what he sees. “Did you ever think about it when we were together?”

Not following, Timmy’s brow creases. “Think about what?”

“Matty, inside you. Fucking you.” Armie goes grey with the effort it takes to say such a thing out loud, except for his cheeks; they flush an angry red.

Timmy’s vision swims. The version of himself that kissed Matty feels like a stranger now, and the fact that it isn’t disgusts him. But he has room to be angry at both of them. How can Armie ask this, insinuating that he’s a fucking supervillain and not somebody who made a mistake. An awful mistake, yeah, the worst thing he could have done to hurt Armie, but miles away from what this question assumes.

His head is buzzing with a thousand ways to respond. It’s too loud to hear any reason. “He didn’t--I always fucked him when we dated,” Timmy says in a low voice. His eyes are narrowed, wet with maddened tears. “But no, Armie. If it makes you feel like the alpha male, or whatever, I never thought about anything other than your big fat cock once we got together.”

Armie grins, morbidly pleased that he’s dragged Timmy down into the mud with him. It brings his own ire down to a simmer. His voice when he speaks is a coiled snake. Time slows down. “I just want to know why Ansel got three years before you tried to fuck somebody else and I only got, what, a few months?”

Timmy recoils like he’s been bitten. He feels hot all over, the venom spreading. “I wasn’t going to fuck him. I was just--you weren't here, Armie. I needed you and you weren’t here.”

“I was going to be home in two weeks.”

That isn’t fair. They were both feeling the distance. Timmy isn’t crazy. “You’d just been home, and I barely saw you.”

“I was recording.”

“I know, but it kept happening,” Timmy groans, imploring that Armie just listen. His desire that they return to civil conversation wars with his selfish need to be heard. “You were always too busy. You couldn’t come over or you were always late. And then once you left, you wouldn’t answer my calls sometimes, you’d be too busy hanging out with the other bands. I was so fucking lonely without you, Armie. You don’t know how much it _hurt_.”

Armie shakes his head, hisses, “I know exactly how much it hurt. That doesn’t mean it’s okay to scratch that itch with somebody else. I never even _thought_ about anybody else.”

“What do you want, a gold medal?” Timmy pulls at his hair, blinking tears out of his vision. “I said I was sorry. I’m so goddamn sorry, I wish I could go back in time and take it back. I really do, but this is the best I’ve got.”

Armie glares at him, his composure shot. The area around his eyes is getting red, his gaze furrowed and glassy. He takes a shuddering breath through his mouth and pushes the exhale through his nose. Then he says, deadly serious in that dark, rumbling timbre of his, “Fuck you for making me love you.”

Timmy makes a sound like he’s been sucker-punched in the gut, desperate for oxygen. “It doesn’t have to be over. I’m right here,” he stresses, slapping himself on the chest with both palms. It makes a hollow sound, like his heart is missing.

“You should have just left me alone. Stayed with Ansel. Or, fuck, _Matty_.” A lone tear rolls over Armie’s lower lid and skates down his cheek. “What was the point?”

Timmy has never seen Armie cry before. He’s heard it, maybe, during one or two anguished phone calls, but the visual of it feels _wrong_ in some way. It eliminates everything inside of Timmy that isn’t regret. He presses the palms of his hands into his eye sockets, racked with a few silent sobs before he’s able to look at Armie again. His remorse is a living thing. Timmy would tear himself open and show it to Armie if doing so would help him believe in it. “I couldn’t help it,” he whimpers.

“Yeah, well...” Armie sighs, but he doesn’t finish his thought.

They spend the next short while standing in the living room, quietly crying. Looking at each other, and looking away, checking their phones. Armie’s tears dry more quickly, of course. He pulls his black t-shirt up over his face to soak them up, intaking a sharp breath when he must accidentally disturb a bruise. Timmy stares dolefully at the strip of bare skin that is revealed.

It feels like the calm after the storm, and not unfamiliar in the least for them except that, this time, their boat didn’t survive. They’ve capsized and are now at the ‘slow descent to the bottom of the ocean' part of the story. If Timmy looks up, he can still see the kaleidoscope of the sun against the surface of the water, but it’s so far out of reach. Death is imminent.

“I just, I really miss you,” He exhales slowly with a twisted mouth, swiping at his cheeks. The disdain on Armie’s face has been scrubbed off by his shirt. His current expression is naked, and resigned.

Armie swallows. “I miss you too,” he admits. It should feel like hope but instead, it lands like an apology.

Timmy clings to whatever he can. “Can’t we--”

“No.” Zero hesitation. Fuck.

Timmy looks down, at his and Armie’s feet and the planks of hardwood between them. The inches look like miles. “I’m really trying to change. I know how shitty I’ve been, for longer than you’ve known me.” He looks up to rediscover the same gentleness in Armie’s face, and his studied attention. “I need to grow the fuck up, and I’m working on it.”

“That’s good.”

“I’m in love with you, Armie. And it’s killing me.”

Armie looks like he might be holding in a breath or biting back an insult but before Timmy’s figured out what he wants to say next, how to spin the true scope of his feelings into words, Armie’s voice is filling the lull. “It doesn’t work. I can’t.”

Two tears trip down the steep cliff of Timmy’s face. “Why?”

“Growing up never made sense to me. I couldn’t see myself entering into a career path or folding into my family’s business. Music was all I ever wanted to do, and now I’m one of the lucky bastards that get to call it my job.”

“Okay, and?”

Armie sighs like the weight of the truth is too much for him, like it’s obvious. Timmy doesn't have it in him to be offended at the implication that he's dense.

“And part of that is touring,” he explains, “which would be impossible if we were together.”

Timmy won’t hear that: _impossible_. “It would be different,” he insists, wringing his hands out. Armie seemingly at peace with this makes him feel out of control.

“Not for me,” Armie tells him, and he’s almost smiling, but it’s sad. Timmy is condemned with the realization that he will never be the source of Armie’s true smile again. They are ruined for each other. “I’d stress about what you were doing away from me every night. I’d be jealous. I can’t trust you, Tim.”

No.

“I would _never_ hurt you like that again.” Timmy really fucking means it but even as he says so, there’s a broken, horrible part of himself barely hidden away that has its doubts.

Armie, who’s been strictly outside of Timmy’s orbit for this entire fight, steps surely into it then. And he reaches out, to cup Timmy’s cheek, sweeping away another tear tracking downward. “I can’t be your trial and error,” Armie says, “I love you, but I just. I don’t have it in me.”

Timmy rejects his words, focusing instead on the fact that Armie is touching him, not so repulsed that he can’t stomach one small gesture of affection. Timmy leans into it. He wants to wind his arms around Armie’s middle and crush them together, but this can be enough.

Armie doesn’t move away once the moment has passed. He strokes Timmy’s cheekbone sweetly, looking at him. “I’m fucking clueless when it comes to relationships, but I’m pretty sure you’re supposed to make each other better in them, not worse.”

Timmy can’t help himself, a sob rippling out as he tilts forward to press his forehead against Armie’s chest. A hesitant hand settles against the nape of his neck, matting down the ends of his hair.

He stays that way for a long time, arms limp at his sides, while silence eats away at time.

There’s nothing left to say because Armie doesn’t want this anymore. His mind’s made up. He’s already gone.

Eventually, Armie pushes his hands against Timmy’s shoulders to put him back on his heels so that they’re not touching again.

Timmy can feel the sticky snot that’s run over his mouth, the tears streaked down his face and clinging to the short bits of curl that still hang near his eyebrows. He can see a soggy spot on the front of Armie’s shirt. His back hits sand at the bottom of the ocean, but he struggles away from it one last time.

“I don’t want to leave,” Timmy confesses, breathing jaggedly. “Can I sleepover one more time? I won’t even touch you, I promise.”

“Timmy.”

He feels his anxiety rising. “What about one more kiss? Our last kiss wasn’t good, we can’t have a shitty last kiss.”

Armie waxes a hand over his stubbled cheek. “That kiss wasn’t supposed to be the last one,” he says, and Timmy shuts his eyes, shameful tears leaking down his face once again. He’s going to be dehydrated. He hates himself.

“Will you sit with me for a minute, at least?” he asks once he thinks he might be able to speak evenly again. The request trembles, sounds pitiful to his own ears.

Armie thinks about it for a second, looking around the apartment. Heated memories are fused with everything: the couch, the floor, the kitchen counter. After some consideration, he nods, and gestures for Timmy to open the front door, snagging his shoes for him on the way out.

They settle side by side on the porch at the mouth of the apartment’s staircase.

Armie sits with his elbows on his knees, his arms perpetually tanned and covered in faded tattoos except for the freshly healed mermaid. Timmy mirrors his pose, careful to leave a cushion of space. He looks into the narrow gap between their bodies at Armie’s socked foot next to the outside of Timmy’s. It’s no longer raining but still damp out; his drive home will be soggy. Their socks are.

“Have you seen him since?” Armie asks, staring resolutely ahead.

_Matty._

Timmy looks at him, catches the flinch of Armie’s jaw. “_No,_” he effuses. “I haven’t seen anyone.” 

Armie takes in Timmy’s response, nodding solemnly to himself, like he wants to believe it. He isn’t brave enough to ask if Armie has seen anyone else, doesn't think he could handle knowing if he had. 

Cars pull in and out of the parking area below them, everyone unaware of what’s happening on the stoop of 23B. Armie withdraws a cigarette and lighter. They smoke it in turns.

“I don’t know how to stop loving you,” Timmy says to the stairs, not expecting a response. It’s just the truth. He can’t fathom such an undertaking; climbing Everest tomorrow would be less daunting. “I want to kiss you so badly.”

“I know,” Armie replies, and it’s the way he says it that makes Timmy turn his head, his chest ballooning foolishly. Armie’s eyes are blue like tumbled stones, edgeless, beautiful. They regard Timmy from a distance, still red from earlier. “But soon enough you won’t.”

“You’re dumb,” Timmy huffs sadly. He’ll always want to. He lets out a breath he’d been subconsciously holding. His head drops forward and he closes his eyes, resting against the bridge of his forearms, making tiny grey polka dots on the cement step below.

After a minute of crying quietly, Timmy feels a large hand settle between his shoulder blades, broad and warm. He sucks back snot and gets a lungful of Armie’s scent, soap and his deodorant. Turning into it can’t be avoided, it’s too familiar. Shuddering, Timmy twists and buries his face in Armie’s shoulder, until his arm comes around Timmy to bring him into his chest.

Sobs overtake Timmy. He winds both arms around Armie’s ribs and squeezes in an attempt to press them back into one being. It’s all he wants, _this_. He’d give up everything for it, make any sacrifice.

But it’s not about what he wants anymore. He needs to stop being so fucking selfish. Armie deserves to be happy, too. He should be afforded the opportunity to put everything in his music, to be unencumbered by Timmy’s love and bullshit.

Armie’s cheek rests itself against the top of Timmy’s head. Somewhere in the back of his mind, untouched by the emotional onslaught, Timmy knows they make a pretty picture. If only he had his camera. This memory will be painful enough to carry around in his mind, but at least a photo he could tuck away for safekeeping.

A cat meows from somewhere nearby, the neighbor's window maybe.

When time has run out, Timmy unlinks his hands from around Armie, but he doesn’t have it in him to duck completely out of Armie’s space, and Armie doesn’t course correct. Their faces remain close, each of Armie’s eyelashes a kernel of wheat.

The kiss that manifests out of their proximity is short-lived, nothing but a slow, plush goodbye between their mouths. When Timmy swells into it is when Armie shrinks away.

Neither of them face the moment of weakness head-on. Timmy sucks in his lip, steels himself against the debilitating ache of it really being over now.

The cigarette they’d been smoking has gone out, just a forgotten butt between Armie’s fingers on his spare hand.

“Can I have that?” Timmy asks, wary to test his voice. Armie shrugs before dropping the cigarette stem into his open palm, still visibly stunned by their kiss but trying to move past it.

Timmy takes the butt and reaches inside his sweatshirt, producing the slim, silver vial that Armie had gifted him for his birthday. He pops the lid and slips the butt inside on top of the one he’d stashed from their smoke on his parent’s balcony.

Armie watches all of this with a funny expression that Timmy can't decode.

“I haven’t taken it off,” he tells Armie lightly, not adding that he currently has no plans to. The ring Matty gave him at his opening has been put away safely in a drawer--Timmy doesn’t want to forget him but he also doesn’t need the constant reminder. Ignoring Armie’s love for him will never be an option.

It disappears back into his shirt, filled with the best and the worst, and then Timmy stands.

“Jack will be home soon,” Armie says, standing too, and grimacing at how wet the ass of his pants is.

It’s after 4:00. Timmy puts on his shoes. He feels like there’s something inside he’s forgotten but realizes that, though it’s the truth, it’s nothing he can retrieve.

“That would be horrifying. I’m gonna go.”

Neither of them move.

“We’ll see each other around eventually,” Armie offers lamely after a second, and that gets Timmy down the first step.

Now that he’s looked away, it feels too dangerous to glance back. He continues down another. “Bye, Armie,” he throws back, checking his pocket for keys.

The door of the apartment opens. “See you, pretty boy,” Armie calls, and then the door shuts.


	9. the sound

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> be safe and be well.  
thank you. 
> 
> \- oyb & cpx

Armie drops his fists, spitting blood into a metal bucket. His ear feels hot.

“Wait,” Dev’s mouth blinks, a word that Armie can’t hear over the ringing in his skull, but he does straighten back up instead of ducking out of the boxing ring. “I need a picture.”

Pulling out his mouthguard, a pink string of saliva stretching with it, Armie licks over his upper lip. The corners of his mouth curve into a bastard of a smile, teeth smeared; it’s painfed and pleased.

“This is too good,” Dev tells him, still breathing hard after their sparring session. Armie’s hearing has finally tuned to the correct station. “You have no idea how often I’ve fantasized about beating you in a fight, I need photographic evidence.” Dev is brimming with disbelief and triumph.

Velcro rips unison as they both pull off their gloves, taking a minute to catch their breath. The gym is packed, as always on a Tuesday. Everything smells like chemical cleaner and body odor. The room echoes with a mixture of dulled out punching, fists and gloves and sand. Grunting men. Terrible 80’s buttrock plays overhead through a half-dead soundsystem. It’s stale and foul, but it’s also the only place Armie has felt alive recently that isn’t on stage.

Dev takes out his phone and Armie slaps it away before he can get a pic. “Fuck off,” but he’s relentless, doubling over to balance the screen directly in front of Armie’s face. They go back and forth for a few seconds before Dev pulls away, exasperated.

“Come on, mate. Let me have this.”

Hanging his head, Armie freezes so that Dev can take the fucking picture, flipping him off in a last second blur, knuckles blushing where they hadn’t been adequately taped over.

“Wicked,” Dev preens. “Tilda’s gonna flip.”

They exit the ring together then, heading towards the men’s locker room. Armie pulls at the dirty tape at the edge of his wrist with his teeth, unwinding it. He flashes Dev a smug grin while they wait in line to refill their water bottles. “Oh I get it. Using a picture of me to get your girlfriend hot....”

Dev pegs him on the shoulder and they break out into laughter, sheened with sweat, endorphins flooding in. Of all the people he’d considered to take up boxing with, Dev was the last person that Armie would have guessed would agree--punching stuff isn’t lifting weights. But it’s been weeks now since they started and he can’t imagine a better partner.

“Armie, man. You’re mingin’,” Dev rudely tells him, instantly squashing any other sentimental thoughts Armie might dare to entertain. Good.

Armie lifts up his arm to smell himself. The sliced muscle tee he’s wearing could hardly be considered a shirt at all, just two large gaping holes where the sleeves used to be, exposing ribs and muscle, sweat and body hair underneath.

He doesn’t argue with Dev’s assessment.

Shower pressure at the gym is one of two extremes: A geriatric dripping his tired orgasm or a power washer. Tonight, it’s the latter and Armie emerges from his stall red-skinned. Exiting the area in a towel, a quick scrub over his head reminds him that he hasn’t buzzed his hair in a couple weeks; Armie figures there’s no one to see it. Not even himself. He bypasses the mirror without even checking his injuries. He spit the last of the blood from his lip out in the shower and his ear is probably going to ache for a few days, but Dev didn’t do any major damage.

While changing into clean clothes and packing up their shit, Dev asks if he wants to do dinner. They’ll sometimes gorge themselves on Thai after practice at the restaurant next door; it’s all about balance, Dev says. Armie couldn’t give a shit. He’s not boxing to stay cut, only to satisfy his aggression in a way that has less human casualties.

“Can’t tonight. I’m hanging with Jack. Thursday?”

Dev checks his phone, probably conferring with the google calendar he and Tilda share--gross. “I think that works, yeah.”

“Cool.”

“Give Jack a big sloppy wet one for me,” Dev winks, zipping up his duffel bag.

Armie has his foot on the bench, tying his shoelaces. “I mean, that’s how I always greet him.”

“Too true.”

They chat for a minute longer, to confirm band practice for Friday and to decide against another boxing match until after their album release--Dakota would have their nuts if they showed up tattered and bruised for the press photos.

After validating parking stubs with the front desk, Dev and Armie leave, splitting off, one right, one left. Dev’s car is in a garage located behind the gym and Jack is waiting with beers a few blocks away.

Outside, Armie lights up for his usual post-anything cigarette, but tosses it after only a few puffs; his blood is still hot and it’s too warm out.

So-Cal’s June gloom is a motherfucker. It drapes itself over Armie during his short walk to the dive where he’s meeting Jack. The sidewalk is sandy and speckled with shoeprints and outlines of feet, the beach only a stone’s throw from his boxing club.

Even while the sun flirts with the horizon, setting everything golden, it burns heat through the cloud-filled sky, turns the air tacky and thick. Armie’s clean black t-shirt clings between his shoulders. Despite the heated protest of Los Angeles weather, Armie’s wardrobe stubbornly remains as inky as his attitude.

Voices buzz through the humidity, the night waking up around him. Somebody sails by on a skateboard. Two girls slip through a gated patio to meet with a group of boys, their arms linked together, butt cheeks peeking out under the frayed hems of denim shorts. It’s every bit of the cliche California that Armie can recall seeing in movies, hearing in songs. The Beach Boys are overrated but Brian Wilson knew how to sell his state.

Jack is already halfway through a pint of amber ale when Armie pushes his way into the crowded bar. The dress code appears to be tank tops and flip flops, which makes every dude here look like a reject from the Real World. Armie scowls at them, and they scowl back, judging his audacity to bring a sports bag into a restaurant, judging his face. A few of the more roided out guys look like they’re sizing him up, spoiling to prove that they could take him in a fight. Months ago Armie would’ve loved that challenge, now he’s mostly satisfied with knowing that these guys will all probably catch the clap by the end of summer.

This bar sucks, and not just because of the assholes it attracts. The Anchovy is a tiny, squat space with overpriced beer and owners that seem to have a personal vendetta against running the air conditioning. Unfortunately, Armie has had to make some adjustments to his usual haunts, and he’s lazy by nature. Some place he can walk from the gym that has little possibility for an unexpected run-in ranks good enough in his books.

Jack is sitting faced away from the door, his work shirt collar flipped up on one side. Armie slaps him on the back in greeting once he’s navigated to the bartop. A smile slices into his face when Jack’s beer slops over.

“Gobshite,” Jack grunts, the motion of bringing his beer to his mouth only temporarily thrown off course. He necks the rest of it before reaching to elbow Armie as he pulls out a stool. “How can anyone stand you.”

Armie laughs, pouring himself a drink from the pitcher sweating between them. “You’re the only one.” He sucks the foam from the rim of his glass, and then his upper lip. It stings. “That’s why you’re the love of my life, Jackie boy.”

“Wow, that’s depressing,” Jack fires back, hiding his smirk.

A woman bellies up to the opposite side of the bar then, washing out a mug with a rag, to ask whether or not they want to put an order into the kitchen. She’s cute, like everyone in Los Angeles is, smiling at them with purple lipstick while taking down their requests. Burgers. Fries. Two shots. Another pitcher of Fat Tire.

Conversations layer over one another in the bar, pressing down the sticky air inside. Armie casts his eyes around, a movement that is half self-preservation, half curiosity. People are looking back--but no one familiar--lips moving while their eyes remain snagged on his face. He wonders if his lip is still bleeding, if the bruise shadowing his jaw is going to swell.

“Looks like Dev finally had his way with you,” Jack teases as though he’d just been in Armie’s head, pointing his sharp-tipped nose towards the mess of Armie’s face. “Must’ve been pleased with himself.”

Armie rubs at his chin, thumbpad grazing the curve of his lip. He scoffs, chest puffed in denial. “I had to let him win eventually.”

Jack laughs at that in his outrageous way, eyes disappearing with the force of it, “Well your mangled face isn’t enough to deter the girlies, clearly. Looks like you have someone trying to blink morse code at you,” he says quietly, head tilting to one end of the bartop.

Armie doesn’t want to, but it’s like being told there’s a dead body on the street and he shouldn’t look. He feels compelled. Turning his head to see for himself, Armie follows Jack’s eyes to another L.A. stereotype with straight bleached hair that tickles her crop top -- no bra. She gives him a soft smile and a finger-wave, the gesture sparkling with gold rings.

Though she’s nice to look at, and deserves kudos for holding his stare, Armie finds himself turning back to Jack. “Maybe later.” It’s a lie but the subject isn’t pressed. Most conversation regarding hookups or relationships have become an awkward dance between Armie and his friends.

On the bartop, Armie’s phone vibrates with great timing and he flips it over. His lock screen -- a tour photo of Dev’s amp covered in Dakota’s spilled milkshake -- is censored by a text from DICKHEAD.

DICKHEAD:  
I’ve officially booked my flight. See you in ten days.

Jack glances at Armie tapping out a quick reply, unease radiating off of him. “You good?”

Armie nods distractedly, “Yeah, just release party stuff. My brother’s going to come down for it.,” and catches the tension melting right back out of Jack. _It’s been three months,_ he wants to say defensively. He doesn't need people to worry.

“Viktor, is it? Well look at you, mending fences. My boy’s growing up.”

While Jack is wiping at a fake tear, the woman working behind the bar brings over their baskets of food. Armie’s stomach cramps in response to the greasy display, steam still billowing from the salty fries and burger oozing cheese between crispy ciabatta. His mouth waters.

Pocketing his first bite in his cheek, Jack says, “Speaking of the release show, I just picked up a suit for it on the way here.”

Armie manhandles his own burger into one hand, fingers clamped over the buttery bun. “Dude, you don’t have to wear a suit.”

“Says you.”

“Fuck off. Dakota is not making you wear a suit.”

“Okay, fine. So what if I’m proud of her, and you and Dev. Let me get dolled up for you.” Fate in the form of a huge glob of ketchup falls just then from the lip of Jack’s tomato, rolling down the white collar of his dress shirt.

They both look at the stain. “You’re not meant for nice things,” Armie informs him.

“Har har. It’s a black suit, ya cunt.”

-

It being a weekday, they don’t stay out all night. Jack has work in the morning, a prison sentence he won’t let Armie forget, using their starkly different employment statuses against him every chance he gets.

‘You drive. I just sat in an hour of traffic on the 405.’ ‘Oh, I should do the dishes? Did you work all day or did you sit at home jerking off?’ ‘No, we can’t get high today. I’d be staring at an excel document all day tomorrow while coming down from shrooms, you melter.’

He’s a fucking drag and he’s lucky Armie loves him.

Before they leave tonight, Armie breathes down a cigarette against a palm tree while waiting for Jack to take a piss inside. He narrows his eyes on each inhale, tuned into the satisfying burn, on the nicotine that keeps his buzz steady.

The valley blonde from earlier ends up splitting his cloud of smoke.

“Hey,” she says and Armie wants to laugh. He does. He's not in a bad mood, but he’s definitely not in the mood for _this._ She shuffles from one foot to another, strokes a hand through her light hair. Armie thinks, well, maybe, but then she smiles and it does nothing for him.

He just pulls up his chin, stays quiet.

“I saw you earlier but you seemed pretty engrossed in your conversation. I didn’t want to interrupt.” She’s got a smoldering confidence that Armie would’ve eaten up once upon a time. Now, he’s lost his appetite for it.

Armie takes another hit from his cigarette, watching her. He says to her on the exhale, “I’m pretty engrossed in this cigarette, too.” She laughs like what he said was a joke so he goes with it, giving her a toothless smirk. Testing his indifference again, he clocks her tanned tits that threaten to spill over her crocheted top when she leans in. Nada.

“I can give you my number so that I can interrupt your other engrossing activities later, if you want.”

She can’t read the room but that doesn’t mean she deserves his cold shoulder. Armie wills himself not to be such an asshole, letting out a breath. “Listen, you’re hot. And I bet you’re a champ in the sack, but I--” he doesn’t know how to finish that thought, or more accurately, he does and the rest of it will negate the lies he’s been telling himself. “I’m going through some shit right now. Maybe next time.”

The woman doesn’t look as rejected as he’d thought she might. Inversely, she seems to sense what he means, filling it in for herself, “A bad breakup, huh.”

Armie swallows, focusing on the minute gesture of ashing his cigarette. Then he looks back up. “Something like that.”

Skinny arms wink around him for a split second, there and gone. “I’ve totally been there,” she says sadly. Armie laughs again and then, thank god, Jack wanders out of the bar.

“Hey baby,” he grins sloppily, bunny teeth and all.

Armie gravitates towards him. “You good to drive? We can always leave your car and pick it up.”

“Nah, I’m good,” Jack promises, eyeing up the girl Armie had been talking to, which reminds Armie to tell her goodbye.

He waves haphazardly with only a spare glance before stepping into line with Jack and heading in the direction of their cars. Jack gives it a few paces before he looks back over his shoulder, making an obvious fool of himself to check out the girl Armie left behind.

“Is she hot? I can’t tell. I have Dakota vision.”

Armie pinches his nose, the repugnance of Jack and Dakota’s relationship hard to stomach at times.

Jack keeps walking and looking back. Armie reaches round his shoulders to sort him out, locking him into place as they meander down the sidewalk together. “Not hot enough?” Jack asks, and to Armie it sounds like _not what you want,_ or maybe _who._

“Nah, man. I’d just rather jerk off listening to you disappoint Dakota in the next room.”

Jack tries to take a swing at him but Armie catches it and they stumble in a fit of obnoxious laughter the rest of the way to their cars.

-

They get back before midnight and Armie leaves Jack to a tipsy phone call in the front room with Dakota. The two immediately take to arguing about which showing of the Argento double feature they should see tomorrow. Dakota hates theater food and it sounds like they’d be eating dinner there. Armie listens for a moment, throwing back a glass of water from the tap in the kitchen. He definitely doesn’t miss compromising.

Before retiring to his room, he feeds the contents of his gym bag and his clothes from tonight into the washing machine with a puddle of Dakota’s pants from the floor, but doesn’t turn it on. The unit is lopsided and will judder loudly for the entire cleaning cycle.

After a piss, Jack is still on the phone, talking quietly. He sounds happy. Armie is pleased that two of his favorite people have found happiness in each other but sometimes their love shines a light on his colossal fuck ups.

Three months after he and Timmy capsized, Armie is able to see the shoreline most days. But at night, without the distractions of friends and working out and planning for the album release, he is sometimes lost in the black of the sea again.

Armie doesn’t sleep well anymore and wakes up repeatedly, sometimes to lay there, sometimes to put on a movie, and much less frequently, to look at old pictures on his phone. He won’t let himself go there now.

Tonight, he’s thinking back to his conversation with the bold girl from the bar. She hadn’t been his first opportunity for an easy hookup since Armie became single again. There were others, at home and on the road. He can still hear Alicia from TMFU telling him that the best way to get over someone was to get under someone new. When he thought about it though, working up a sweat with a stranger, or even a friend, he just wasn’t into the idea. It didn’t turn him on. It wasn’t going to take his mind off of Timmy. And it wasn’t going to be as good, so what was the point?

Up until now Armie had been making up excuses, but what he’d said tonight was the real reason for his lack of interest. Despite functioning as a person again, he isn’t over Timmy. The loss is still a part of him, unable to be kept apart from the rest, as fucking embarrassing as it is to admit.

And it’s not just Armie who’s been affected. Jack and Dakota tread too lightly with him now, nervous for his heart at every turn. And Dev is always suggesting friends of friends that he might like, checking in with him when they meet up at the gym. They’re all afraid to see him in the raw first few days after things went to shit; Jack walked in once during an emotional talk with Dakota where Armie was crying and has been traumatized ever since.

Things haven’t gone back to the way they were before Armie dated Timmy, and three months on, there’s no reason to assume that they will. He’s living as the version of himself that watched Timmy walk down his staircase now, who has a chink in his armor that those closest to him can see.

-

As the date of the album release approaches, band practice breaks down. Instead of splitting their time between going through songs and shooting the shit, they have an endless list of things to actually get done.

Armie rarely works directly with the label, which means Dakota and sometimes Dev bring updates into practice. First it was song order and liner notes, picking an album cover. Then, once they’d agreed on everything regarding the record, their time was eaten up with prepping for the big show.

While the date was chosen by a higher power, the venue had been open to suggestions. After immediately shutting down the band’s idea for it to be hosted at Dakota’s house -- too amateur for such a known label apparently -- they were able to book with the House of Blues on Sunset Boulevard, thanks to some string-pulling by Saoirse.

Weeks of back and forth with each other and their manager, Tessa, culminates in a show plan that they’ll all be happy with. The bill is filled by a few labelmates and some friends, with Drive Like I Do headlining the night. But before the performance there will be an open bar and catering from a popular downtown tapas bar (generously funded by Armie’s parents). Later in the night, friends and family will be moved upstairs for an afterparty, to drink, listen to the album over the house speakers, and drown the band in flattery.

With such a to-do planned for the launch, Luca goes apeshit on marketing. The band does interviews with indie magazines and local radio shows at excruciating hours of the morning. Posters go up in triplicate near bus stops, printed on bright paper and shellacked to the walls of buildings.They sign off on new t-shirt designs and Dakota spends half of her days posting shit to the band’s instagram, the follower count of which climbs tirelessly. Armie likes to tell her that it’s because most of her IG Live sessions end up with the camera looking straight down her shirt. (He’s probably not wrong. Having a bombshell as their lead singer hasn’t exactly hurt interest in the band.)

Tonight, Dakota is recording a boomerang of Dev’s fingers plucking at his bass and posting it with a salacious hashtag.

“Is that necessary?” Dev frowns, eyeing the #FINGERSLIKEAPRO in her post. On instinct, Armie muses that if Timmy is still following their account, he’ll find it amusing. He brushes the thought off before his brain can conjure up a devastating image of what that would look like, sound like.

“So necessary,” Dakota confirms, flitting away from him then to grab something from their junk table in the back of the warehouse space. It’s getting late and they’re getting tired. She returns with a manilla envelope dancing in her grip. “Something came from the label.”

Armie’s gaze snaps up from where he’d been tightening a drum head. “What is it?”

“I don’t know,” she sing-songs, but she knows well enough. When they don’t race over to her, she rolls her eyes. “Fucking come here, you shits.”

They obey her snarl.

“Well damn, it’s real,” Dev breathes once Dakota has hooked a finger into the envelope and torn it open. He is curved over her shoulder with Armie on her other side, the three of them staring down into her hands at what she’s withdrawn from the protective mailer.

The first physical copy of their album in an immaculate jewel case.

A square portrait of 19-year-old Dakota glares up at them, monochrome with the contrast turned up to 11. She is a white face, dark lips and big eyes, and she’s sneering with a brick wall peeking out past her wild hair. They couldn’t decide on a cover for the longest time, until Dakota unearthed a shoebox of old flyers from some of their earliest shows. Armie had suggested this picture, having recalled an old conversation he’d had while stoned with Timmy one night, ranting about the gritty, violent lighting of photography in punk music and how a lot of bands have lost their taste for it.

DRIVE LIKE I DO is slapped over her head in orange writing. Self-titled.

“You were so cute,” Armie simpers, “what happened?”

Dakota shoulder checks him and turns the CD over. They look at their track list, the inside sleeve, the actual CD design.

It’s perfect. It’s theirs.

Dev pushes out a breath. “I might actually cry.”

“Do it,” Armie dares, reaching around Dakota to snap the CD case shut again. He gets it though. This isn’t a shitty self-burned EP with sharpie labels. This is ten years of working together, fighting together, creating together, pressed into reality. They can now hold a decade of memories in their hands. And soon, thousands of people will also be able to hold this thing they’ve made, that’s in some way, a piece of them. Holy shit.

-

Practice after the CD reveal is kind of all over the place. Nobody can keep their mind on any one task for long. Dakota goes back to instagram while Dev and Armie go back to an earlier discussion about signature drinks. “If our band was a drink, what would it be?”

Armie scratches his chin. “Ipecac.”

“The shit that makes you sick?”

“Yeah.”

“Piss off.”

Armie dodges Dev’s flippant swat, hands going up like they’re in the boxing ring. He ducks and weaves, playful. Their album release is starting to finally feel real, time flowing like water instead of molasses. “What are you wearing?” Armie asks, shoulders twisting.

After an eye roll, Dev joins him, the pair of them dancing around on an old carpet. Someone is going to trip. “Dunno. Nice shirt. You?”

“Haven’t decided.” Armie’s wardrobe is minimalist as it is and he sure as fuck isn’t going shopping. “Maybe I’ll just wear these,” he offers, gesticulating to his long, hairy thighs that are scarcely covered by his usual gym shorts.

“Sure, your Mum will love that,” Dev quips.

Armie swings a soft jab his way. “Yours definitely will,” and Dakota rolls into a fit of giggles. Armie throws an accustory look her way. “ Hey, Jack’s wearing a suit.”

“Really?” Dev directs his question at Dakota across the room, voice high with curiosity.

Dakota resurfaces from her phone again. “I’m not making him! He wants to.”

Armie takes a moment to slow-motion uppercut Dev, whose chin dramatically pops up like he’s been hit. “Twenty bucks says he walks in with a top hat and cane.”

“He wouldn’t,” Dakota balks, though she looks worried.

Fifteen minutes more of hyper teasing and they call it a night. Armie picked Dakota up for practice and she comes home with him when it’s over, but not before they stop through a Wendy’s on the drive back to pick up spicy chicken nuggets and a slew of different sauces.

Jack is waiting with beers when they walk in. “Girlfriend, boyfriend,” he greets cheekily, giving Dakota a quick kiss and taking the rolled bags of fast food from Armie.

“People are going to start thinking I’m in a throuple with you losers,” Armie grouses.

Dakota steals the root beer in his left hand. “You wish.”

The couch has been cleared off for the three of them to sit. (As of this afternoon it was stacked with blu-rays from a midnight reorganization effort.) Dakota’s boots become landmines in the walkway. Armie sits at one end of the couch and Jack at the other so that she can sprawl between them.

This is how almost every night went when DLID first got home from tour. Jack, Armie, and Dakota, together, watching movies and eating garbage. Armie never asked for it but knows that left to his own devices, his coping with the breakup would have been very different.

Now it’s just routine. Dakota spends half of her nights here, anyway, and Jack somehow always corrals them into watching the Criterion channel with him before the two of them fuck off to have sex or pass out.

The same happens tonight after plenty of fast food, a shared 6-pack and a joint. Dakota and Jack end up making out through the last half hour of Lady Snowblood. He tells them to fuck off and so they do, then turns up the volume on the TV to be safe.

Armie smokes half of another joint, trying to tip the scale on his souring mood. What did he do before in his free time that wasn’t music-related? Nothing that interests him now. He marinates in a state of faux content until he’s too irritated to stay put. Shutting off the television, he goes to his room, pulls off his clothes, puts on Dead Kennedys for soothing background noise and grabs the book he’s been reading.

Time passes.

At first Armie doesn’t hear the soft patter of nails on his door. They scuttle again and before he has time to shout anything, Dakota is already pushing through. He eyes her from his place in bed, on top of the covers in his underwear. We’ve Got the Neutron Bomb is open in his lap. He dogears his place, unable to ignore his flagging mood enough to focus anyway. The words sift right through him.

Dakota barging into Armie’s room churns his stomach even more. He’d slipped away from her and Jack’s marital bliss only to have it thrust back upon him; she’s swimming in one of his t-shirts, faded blue with a chipped print on the front. It’s casually intimite, the hemline touching her thighs and Armie is reminded instantly of Timmy standing where she is now, wearing a worn Drive Like I Do shirt and nothing else, long limbs peering out of black cotton.

He gives Dakota a warning glare. “Seriously? I could’ve been knuckles deep in my own asshole.”

She looks ready to bark back at him but then her expression shuffles to one of morbid curiosity. “I--wait. Do you bottom?”

Armie motions that he’s going to hurl a pillow at her. “What the hell do you want?” He is too tangled up in his own bullshit to realize how uneasy Dakota becomes once her bubble of laughter has popped. He thrusts out a hand, palm up. “Why are you in my room, Kota?”

She crosses her ankles and gives one of her sad smiles, the kind that come with careful eyes.

Instantly, he knows the subject of her interruption.

“I didn’t want to say anything unless I got confirmation but.” She moves closer to the bed, her hands smoothing down the comforter though she doesn’t take a seat. Anxiety judders out of her. “Obviously I invited Timmy to the album release, and it sounds like he’s going to be there. So just. Here’s your heads up or whatever. Now you know.”

Armie releases a breath. He isn’t mad at her. He knows that they still hang out. Even though it’d be simpler if Timmy had just ceased to exist, he can’t expect everyone in their lives to leave him behind. If things were different, Armie wouldn’t have either. “Okay.”

“I just want to make sure you’re cool.”

That irritates him, and he can’t keep it from showing in his tone. “Why wouldn’t I be? A thousand people are going to be there, some that I’ve had my dick in. It’s fine.”

Dakota looks like she’s holding back an eyeroll. “I just don’t want any shit to go down.”

He barks out a laugh and, nodding slowly, looks down to his book, “No ‘shit’ between us anymore. We haven’t talked since April,” which, if he’s honest, still feels weird. Armie’s life has taken on the quality of some feature film’s alternate ending; he can see why this version was left on the cutting room floor.

Dakota looks right through his farce of nonchalance, as usual, but he shakes his head minutely at her gentle sigh, cuts her off before she can do something horrific like crawl into bed and cuddle him. (They’ve already spent a humiliating number of late nights together that way, on the tour bus and in the first few days back in L.A.)

“I’ll be on my best behavior, scout’s honor,” Armie tells her with three fingers raised, tying a desperate bow on their conversation. Dakota is lenient enough not to unwrap it again, taking the hint and moving back towards the hall.

She smiles at him. “You’re a prick,” then blows him a kiss. “Love you. Goodnight.”

Once she’s gone, Armie looks back toward his book but he doesn’t see the type on its pages. His mind refuses to settle on anything that isn’t the surety that in a week’s time, he’ll be seeing Timmy. Of course Armie knew that it was a possibility given Dakota’s continued friendship with him, but there is a huge difference between a hypothetical and a confirmation.

He can’t even guess what it’s going to feel like, just that in this moment, he’s daunted. Different scenarios cut through him. Timmy with a plus one. Timmy happy to see him. Timmy as sad and shaken as he’d been when they last spoke. Timmy with even shorter hair. Timmy with hickies. Timmy moved on.

Armie worries about his own reactions as well. Will it still hurt like it did last time? Or will he find that he doesn’t care, that after-Timmy doesn’t spark him in the same way now that there’s been so much distance between them?

It’s a toss up deciding which would be worse.

Armie doesn’t get through any more of his book after Dakota leaves. Instead, he brushes his teeth and turns on an episode of Song Exploder from his phone.

Dreams don’t come easy, but eventually, he sleeps.

-

The next week slips through his fingers like sand. After a flurry of planning and practicing and beer, it is suddenly showtime.

The House of Blues glows in blue and purple lighting, imposing against the darkening sky. An evening breeze stirs the air. The night feels as alive as Armie does walking in.

It starts like any other show: phone tag with their manager and the venue, making sure their guest list names for the afterparty are turned in, parking info for unloading the trailer with their gear, then pre-show joints being smoked and a test run of the open bar, everything passed around until the entire crew is pleasantly buzzed.

There’s a moment when Armie goes outside with intentions to suck down a cigarette but instead spots the line of fans already pressed around the side of the building. Doors don’t even open for another hour, _holy shit._ A few people are drawn to the large door opening. They yell his name, wave, cat call. A smile tugging at his mouth, he nods and heads back into the venue. _This is his life now._

“There you are, fucker,” says Henry of TMFU from down the gritty hallway when the door shuts behind him. His whole band has shown up, along with the bands playing tonight and a grouping of other VIP guests that DLID have grown up around in the local scene.

Saorise and Greta are also present. Nick flew in from Seattle and is currently chatting with Tilda and Jack, who looks dapper in a nice, _normal_ black suit devoid of stains (for now). Dev’s parents and Dakota’s grandparents mingle next to a table of bottled waters. Even the Hammers have arrived. Armie’s brother, Viktor, and his parents who, despite keeping a wide berth between themselves and anyone who isn’t wearing designer, are a thankful addition.

It’s Armie’s past, present and apparent future all merging into one.

Henry already has a drink in hand, one of the signatures Dakota came up with, a brilliant red liquid that matches her notorious shade of lipstick. “Making a break for it?”

“Nah, let me fuck up our set first. I just needed a cigarette.” Armie touches every pocket then, taps the breast of his black denim jacket, and realizes that he’d left his pack outside. Shit.

“How about a shot then?” Henry suggests, looking cool in a white tank top and faded jeans. “Come on. Everyone’s looking for you.”

The pre-show drinks and catering winds up being pretty awkward. It’s too many worlds colliding and his attention is being pulled in every direction. Nerves start to rise like the tide as time goes on. It feels like the band's first time playing. To distract, Armie tells that story to a patchwork of people folding street tacos into their mouths. DLID’s first ever performance was a disaster. Dakota cut her lip open on the mic during one song, Dev’s bass dropped off its strap and crashed, and Armie couldn’t keep time to save his life. Not to mention the fact that they were playing underage at a bar, and only to the sound guy, the bartender, and a few sloshed regulars.

“The bit about you playing offbeat hasn’t changed,” Dakota adds with a wicked smile, dodging the chunk of shredded chicken that Armie lobs at her.

Tonight’s show ends up being far and away better than their first, or fiftieth. The room is filled from the opener to headliner, ‘sold the fuck out’ according to Tessa, and when DLID take the stage, Armie is sure that he’ll feel the ensuing vibrations from the shouts and cheers for weeks to come.

Like all performances, the set is a whirl of sweat and adrenaline, but this one has a particularly overwhelming sense of connectivity. Dakota is a force, Dev a maniac and the best at what he does, and Armie reflects their energy from behind his drums out into the crowd. An endless loop.

People scream-sing the songs back at them and fall over one another to crowd surf, bouncers collecting them at the front of the stage.

The applause after their last song rings out for minutes on end, complete with wolf whistles and a rhythmic chant of Drive-Like-I-Do.

He can’t have imagined a better way to ring in their album.

-

The intoxication that hits Armie’s bloodstream after a good show is unbelievable. At one point in his life, he’d swear there was no better feeling. These days, he’d call it a close second.

Still, he’s on fire. Dakota wraps him and Dev up in sweaty hugs and covers them in lipstick backstage. Armie’s muscles are still tight and thrumming from exertion but he squeezes back.

They’re only given a few minutes to take it all in as a trio before someone from the label whisks them into a green room to meet with winners of various social media contests. Armie can’t understand that people out there give enough of a shit about their band to put effort into getting to talk to them, but he goes willingly, after a bummed cigarette, with a drink in his hand.

It winds up being pretty painless. Six people chosen from a radio show, six from the Luca Records twitter, and four from the DLID instagram account. “I’m sweaty,” he warns each person requesting a photo, but every last one still wants to tuck themselves under his armpit, sandwiched between him and Dakota with Dev on her other side.

A young fan, probably fresh out of high school, asks for a hug. Instinctively, Armie wants to grimace and turn her down, but tonight isn’t about his shitty attitude. It’s for the people who enjoy their music as much as it is for the band itself, and he’s grateful for the fans.

“Yeah, fuck it,” he shrugs and she practically squeals.

In the other corner of the room, Dakota is being fawned over by a pair of dudes while Dev talks shop with a couple of women curious about the technical aspects of the band: their set up, song writing process, whether or not they’ll be jumping on the road again soon now that the album is out.

Armie pulls back from the girl that seems intent on becoming one with him by any means necessary, even cracking his ribcage and physically crawling inside of him.

“Would you sign this photo?” she asks nervously, and proceeds to shuffle through her bag when he gives her the okay. Armie is already uncapping a sharpie with his teeth when she hands over the book. “It’s my favorite.”

It feels like the power goes out inside of him, everything dark for a dizzying moment. He blinks the photo into focus as his internal circuit breaker resets. The fan has presented Armie with Timmy’s photobook, flipped open to an image of himself behind his kit, shirtless with his arms in the air, shorts riding high, face taut and focused. It’s from DLID’s show at The Peach Pit, the first time Timmy had taken photos of their band as a three piece. Armie remembers watching him develop a shot of Dakota from that night the first time he saw Timmy’s apartment. He can still smell the chemicals in the dark room, still feel the hungry press of Timmy’s body, still hear him breathing his name--Armie stops there before his body can react.

The young girl waiting looks at him with penetrating eyes, like she _knows_. Social media is a fucking tumor and Armie has no doubt that rumors of their breakup and its surrounding bullshit have gestated into cancer by now.

Still, he can’t resist taking a look, and flips through a fan of glossy, white pages. Back when Timmy was in the process of putting the book together, he’d mentioned making a special copy for Armie. Due to the unfortunate timing, Timmy’s infidelity, and their end, it’s probably collecting dust inside Timmy’s apartment somewhere, if it exists at all.

“He’s really talented.”

“Yeah,” Armie exhales, his eyes snagging on a self-portrait of Timmy towards the back of the book, his boyish scribble spread out next to his bare shoulder. _Timothée Chalamet !_

Armie stares at the photo, his mind slowly folding around the memory of that night -- how they had argued, how Timmy had cried, though he can’t remember what about. Armie’s spent plenty of nights since the breakup trying to recollect the topics of their countless arguments, but the details always dissipated into the background, overwhelmed by the memories of after. Make up sex or Timmy’s sad-happy laughter signaling the end of a fight, both of them out of energy. In the picture, his eyes are soft, mouth slightly open.

Dakota’s high pitched laugh wakes Armie from his stupor and quickly he turns back to the page of himself drumming to paint out his uncharacteristically fanciful signature. The fan thanks him and he stays silent, resisting the urge to repeat the sentiment. Without her request he might have never seen Timmy’s published photobook, and despite the heartache attached, Armie is glad to have seen it (albeit months after Matty, who got to kiss Timmy at the book’s reception).

-

Twenty minutes later, the guests are being escorted out to join the after-party that’s beginning to buzz outside the green room.

Dakota excuses herself to the bathroom to get ready while Armie and Dev wipe down and change in the middle of the room. Wondering idly whether the signature in the young fan’s book was procured tonight, Armie strips out of his shorts and t-shirt to dig through the bag Dakota packed for him. His, “Thanks, Mom,” had earned him a backhanded slap to his crotch.

Dev is ready first, oozing confidence and warmth in a white button up and dreamy oatmeal-colored suit jacket. He looks meant for fame--good, someone ought to.

Armie couldn’t bring himself to dress up, opting for something comfortable instead. This night was for them, their band, their music. What they had made for themselves, all of which he’d done without having to prance around in a stuffy suit. He puts on a pair of worn black jeans with rips at the knees, his Docs, and because he isn’t a total slob, a black knit sweater with two white stripes on the sleeve pushed up past his elbows.

Dakota makes up for his lack of polish. She emerges from the bathroom looking dropdead gorgeous in a high necked, spaghetti strap dress that stops midthigh, thousands of opalescent sequins hugging the curves of her small frame. Armie’s attraction for her had simmered into platonic affection years ago, but even now he can appreciate the side view of her tits, the bite of her shoulder blades exposed by the open back. Her sweat-damp hair is held up in a messy bun, strands of blonde cupping her chin and wisped over her nape. Her chunky velvet platforms make an intimidating sound as she stomps into the room.

“Jesus Christ. Jack is going to have an aneurysm,” Armie snarks with a raised brow. Dakota takes the comment for what it is -- she fucking beams.

“Thank you, Armie! That has to be the nicest thing you’ve ever said to me.”

“That peek of sideboob strikes the perfect balance between elegant and slu--”

“And then you had to go and ruin it. I fucking dare you to finish that sentence,” she warns, her cherry red smile hitting him with full force. “You’re the worst person in the whole town.”

“She’s right,” Dev joins in gleefully. He looks her over and adds, “But so is he. Wow, Kota.”

They all regard each other, taking the moment in. Three high school punks playing make believe as adults. There’s no need to put into words what each of them feel.

Drive Like I Do embraces, a six-armed beast with one heart. “Let’s fucking do this.”

-

The top level of the venue is an assortment of fancy chairs tucked into tables, all laid out with champagne, glasses, and copies of their CD. The speakers overhead are playing their way through the track list at a frequency that’s loud enough to require conversation at full volume.

“Sup, dickhead?” Armie calls through the space.

His brother, Viktor, meets him in the middle of the room, holding a dark-colored drink in a low tumbler. They haven’t seen one another since Armie left Washington this time last year. He looks well, like Armie if he’d sold his soul to The Man and didn’t collect shitty tattoos.

“If it isn’t the rockstar.”

They tip into a one-armed hug.

“Good to see you. Where’s mom and dad?”

Viktor’s eyebrows go up in familiar Hammer fashion. “They couldn’t stay for the show. Something about an important business meeting tomorrow,” he explains, which is just code for their father having golf plans in the morning. Honestly, Armie isn’t surprised and he isn’t upset. He’d already spoken to them earlier in the evening and it was a huge step that they’d come at all, let alone wanted to pay for part of the event. At this point in their relationship, it’s enough. It would have been unfathomable six months ago.

“They’re proud of you,” Vik assures Armie quickly, cognizant of the fault lines in their family that may finally be going dormant. “We all are.”

“Jesus, how many of those have you had to drink?” Armie laughs, his smile bent with a genuine curve.

Nearby, Dev and Dakota are being inhaled by people wishing to congratulate them. Jack is shouting loudly about Dakota’s dress, probably near cardiac arrest by now. Tilda is wrapped around Dev while he receives others. Even Saorise and Greta have threaded themselves into the bubbly mix. A few people manage to slip in a comment to Armie while others speak over each other, feeding him praise and compliments. He’s all too aware of Viktor at his side, watching with an amused, knowing smirk. Armie has never had a good relationship with this type of positive attention.

“I thought you were such a selfish ass for bailing on the business to make music with your friends. And stupid too,” Viktor says once there’s a gap after yet another congratulations.

“Did I mention it was good to see you?” Armie jokes with a rumble.

“Let me finish,” Viktor grins, nudging him with the knuckles holding his drink. “What I’m trying to say is that I just didn’t get it, but now I think I do. You were supposed to do this. This life looks good on you.”

So much sincerity in one sitting is rotting Armie’s teeth, but it warms him too. He’s been comfortable with his designation as the black sheep of the Hammer brood for years, but hearing that his family finds worth in him despite the path he’s chosen feels fucking good. It validates nearly three decades of butting heads. He wasn’t just going through a phase. He wasn’t trying to hurt them. He was fighting for who he was supposed to be.

“And with that whole Christmas party fiasco…”

Armie puts up a hand. They’ve met their quota of family breakthroughs for one evening. “Chill out.”

“I didn’t know that that’s why you moved...” Viktor’s voice goes quiet, regretful.

“It’s fine,” Armie tells him shortly. There are people in the background waving for his attention, an entire room that’s here to see him. This conversation can happen later, or preferably never.

Viktor lets up, body language retreating into a casual stance. He takes a sip of his cocktail, eyes sparkling over the rim of his glass. He alters his approach. “Sure there isn’t anyone here you’d like to introduce me to?”

“I’m going to clock you right here in front of everyone,” Armie growls, but he’s shaking his head, smiling even. Which is, of course, when his gaze slides to a figure over Viktor’s left shoulder.

His heart registers it before even his eyes.

Timmy.

The sight of him is like an adrenaline shot punching straight through the center of Armie’s chest. His high from this evening is muffled by it, overwhelmed with a much bigger, urgent feeling.

Careful not to rouse suspicion, Armie claps a hand around Viktor’s shoulder. “It’s so good to see you, man. I’ve gotta say hello to a few more people. We still on for lunch tomorrow?”

Viktor doesn’t look surprised in the least to be getting the hook. “Yep, I’m in town until Sunday. I’ll catch up with you later.”

They hug it out again, both arms this time, then Viktor heads back to the bar.

The entire room closes in as if painted on accordion bellows. Armie breathes, mouth dry. He should get a drink but stays rooted in place as Timmy turns, sees him, and starts forward.

While electricity zips through him, so does frustration. Armie had given himself a pep talk on the way out the door tonight on the topic of Timmy, about how, even though he was going to be at the show, Armie wasn’t going to look for him. He wasn’t going to scan the crowds or feel his way through the room, anxiety a knot in his stomach. He’d even prepared a cool, noncommittal nod that he would execute if they did happen to come across each other at some point.

Every careful plan of self-preservation is out the window as soon as Timmy is bounding his way. Seeing him and not_ belonging to him_ still doesn’t compute. It leaves Armie floating in the cavernous music hall.

Timmy’s crooked, open smile swallows him whole, but it isn’t directed his way. If Armie’s brain were functioning at full capacity, he’d notice Dakota swooping in next to him and see that this smile was for her. He’d register how Timmy has purposefully angled his body away from Armie, how his eyes ping over every spot in the room except where Armie stands. Even Timmy’s laugh seems to stop short just before it touches him.

“D! Holy fucking shit, I’m so proud of you!”

Dakota, manifested, slips her arms excitedly under Timmy’s and folds against him in a crushing embrace. Timmy’s face disappears in her errant bottle blonde curls.

Armie tries not to stare but his brain has gone fuzzy. Watching Dakota wrap herself around Timmy is strange -- like seeing someone break a bone in the same place you had once before. Phantom pain, the aching recollection. He relives it for a second time when Timmy pulls away from Dakota just to offer himself up to Dev.

Armie’s shoulders pull at the memory of Timmy’s weight on them.

“I’m so sorry I couldn’t make it for the pre-show or the set.” Timmy sounds flustered, drawing away from Dev with a sheepish grin. He still hasn’t looked at Armie, who takes it as a challenge to steady his gaze.

It’s discomfiting when Armie clocks Timmy’s outfit. He’s wearing clothes that Armie has never seen him in; a coral colored sweater that actually fits and a pair of grey tailored slacks. The haircut that had Armie reeling when they met last seems to have only made his curls more chaotic. It’s still trimmed shorter than Armie’s ever seen it but without any of the containment that is usually becoming of a haircut . His fingers twitch at the instinct to reach out and brush over the bed of lazy corkscrews.

This newly wrapped Timmy stirs up something soft and sad inside of Armie that had more or less settled to the bottom. All he can think to do is dilute the emotion with another drink from the bar, but then he spots the silver chain around Timmy’s neck and the accompanying bump under his sweater.

Armie looks to the floor in chagrin, regret--he’s not sure. On the way down he registers Timmy’s infamous retro Nikes and smiles despite himself.

“I’m _really_ sorry I couldn’t make it for the show,” Timmy says again. Dakota forgives him with a print of lips against his cheekbone. “I caught the last song though.” Timmy’s head moves like an oscillating fan, never quite reaching Armie.

Armie loads a shitty comment, something to call him out for being so obvious, for ignoring him, for making shit weird but then Timmy’s eyes finally land and he forgets what he was going to say.

“Congratulations,” Timmy says, voice quiet but direct. Armie knows he’s forcing himself to speak but also knows by the tightness of his jaw, the bunch of his eyebrows, that the sentiment is sincere.

“Yeah, thanks.”

The moment is fleeting. Another round of friends and music industry people press in then to break up their micro reunion, Timmy getting lost in the shuffle of bodies, the rounds of hugs, the pats on the back and the handshakes.

When the movement slows and he’s gone, Armie reminds himself that he isn’t going to look for Timmy tonight, that he doesn’t want an ex muddying the celebratory mood of the evening.

Apparently, he’s a fucking liar.

-

It takes the better part of an hour, and more than a couple bummed cigarettes and free drinks, but Armie finds him eventually.

“Hey, kid.”

Timmy turns with a purpose that makes Armie feel like his presence was expected.

Silence jabs at him but it isn’t painful. Inversely, it makes him flush, alive with sensation. After weathering the anticipation of seeing Timmy again, he finds that it’s more of a relief than anything, an exhale after two months of holding his breath.

“Hi,” Timmy says, looking at ease with an open PBR can held to his stomach. He isn’t the villain that Armie broke up with, but he isn’t exactly the boy that Armie met in Dakota’s bathroom either, a thought that should unbalance him but doesn’t feel anything more than true. Here’s where the real healing can begin.

Timmy is the first to grab at the opportunity for a conversation. Armie is privately grateful, still feeling out the moment.

“The album is incredible. And the cover--” Timmy waves a copy in his hand for emphasis, “holy shit. Brilliant.”

Armie shrugs, face hot. He knows that he should say thank you but the CD case between them feels like a spoil of war being brandished in the slender fingers of one of its casualties. He’s proud of himself and what DLID have accomplished but there are parts of him that don't feel clicked into place. Something is missing. In a different timeline, one of Timmy’s photos would be the cover.

“Yeah, I distinctly remember talking with somebody about how balless punk album art has gotten in the last few years.”

A smile flares against Timmy’s cheeks like Armie’s words were the match he needed to light up. It’s hard to look at it, impossible to turn away from. “Yikes, sounds like that person was either stoned or pretentious.”

Armie regards him. “Definitely both.”

They laugh until it crackles and dies into silence once more. It isn’t uncomfortable but it isn’t yielding either. Armie presses against it but it’s Timmy who breaks through again, saying, “So. Is it all sex, drugs, and rock n’ roll now? Can’t wait to brag about how I knew you all before you were famous.”

Armie looks horrified at the concept, then remembers that he isn’t the only one who’s found success in his chosen career path recently. “Shut the fuck up, Mr. _Paper Magazine_.”

Even under the constant rotation of lights, and the still visible smear of Dakota’s lipstick, Timmy’s cheeks burn an achingly bright shade of pink. “You saw that?”

He did. In fact, Armie had gone out to buy his own copy after Dakota told him about Timmy’s spread. 100 Artists To Watch. Number 73. He’d read the short interview a few times over and stared at the attached thumbnail it came with for longer than he’ll admit.

Shrugging, he lies and says, “Dakota wouldn’t shut up about it. She’s like one of those parents with the ‘my kid is an honor student’ bumper sticker on their minivan.”

Timmy laughs. It’s big, louder than the music playing. Armie registers his tongue against the back of his teeth.

“I don't know what's more terrifying. The bumper sticker or the idea of a miniature Jack and Dakota out there terrorizing the world.”

Armie feels his jaw loosen. “You’re right, and they fuck like rabbits. The only viable solution is to castrate Jack. In high school, I took a glass art class where we used soldering irons. I think that makes me qualified.”

Timmy only laughs louder and without hesitation, Armie does too. It doesn’t feel weird. Or it does, but only because he _thinks_ it should. Instead, Timmy’s smile and the sound of his laugh is like listening to a song he’d forgotten that he loves, or finding a favorite t-shirt after months of not wearing it. He wonders how it could have ever slipped his mind.

“You’re dumb.” Timmy’s voice wavers and suddenly Armie feels how he thought he would, uneven. He scrubs a hand over his fuzzy skull, back to front, his face easing out of its amusement and into uncertainty.

“Do you have a cigarette?” Armie pats his pockets, “I’m out.” He tries not to make eye contact with the bump under Timmy’s shirt, the nicotine-stained memories contained in the necklace he’s carrying underneath.

Timmy looks genuinely disheartened when he pulls out his vape pen. “Just this. Sorry.”

“Mm,” Armie hums thoughtfully. The smile on Timmy’s face is replaced with a worried bottom lip. It looks like he’s pouting, or trying not to. The effect is kind of endearing, kind of sad; Armie’s chest feels tight. He realizes that Timmy thinks he was going to take a cigarette off him and bail. And that probably should have been his plan but looking at Timmy now, it doesn’t even feel like an option. “Should’ve known you’d have your douche flute on you.”

“Fuck you,” Timmy breathes out amusement, relief.

“If you want to put your mouth around something that wasn’t created exclusively for jerk offs, we can go bum a real smoke from someone outside.”

Timmy takes a sip from his tall can, “That’s what she said,” and follows Armie towards the door.

There are likely eyes on them but Armie doesn’t care. He leads Timmy through the pods of people talking, looking back once to see that he’s still coming.

Just as they’re approaching the doors to outside, however, a label exec that Armie can never remember the name of stops him in his tracks with a hand around his bare forearm. “If it isn’t the troublemaker of the group,” the guy says, grinning with a toothpick held in his smile.

Timmy stops a few feet short of them, looking vaguely uncomfortable. Armie sends him his eyes before looking back to the suit. “That’s me.”

The guy must have seen Timmy trailing behind him because he turns his attention to Timmy now. “Do you know how much money this guy cost us with legal fees? Got into three altercations during their last tour.”

Armie glances to Timmy again, piecing together that he doesn’t know about the two brutal fights that happened in the shows right after their breakup.

“Here’s hoping we make that money back in album sales,” Armie says awkwardly in an attempt to diffuse the conversation, but all it does is tune the dude’s rambling towards marketing.

Timmy shouldn’t have to sit through this. Pretending to listen to the suit, Armie reaches out to get Timmy’s attention by putting a hand around his upper arm. They both look to the spot where Armie’s just touched him, “I’ll find you later.”

Glancing around the room and back to Armie, Timmy quirks his lips. “I should go soon anyway. It was really nice to see you. Congrats again.”

Then, without any further conversation, Timmy is drifting away from him, hand raised in goodbye. Armie feels his chest tighten even more. He’d love to show the label exec firsthand what an altercation with him is like, but he doesn’t operate that way anymore. In an effort to be a civilized member of society, Armie has to let Timmy go.

His eyes follow Timmy’s retreat until he’s out of sight and then, blessedly, a few minutes later Nick has found him and wants to have a drink.

“Great talking with you,” Armie says to the exec in a voice that expresses the exact opposite, and allows himself to be rescued by Nick.

-

The party continues for another couple hours, Armie being swept into circles to catch up and then passed along. He has a few beers, but he doesn’t get drunk. Henry offers to top off his buzz with some coke, but he just isn’t in the mood. Though he’d driven over with plans to leave his car overnight and catch a lyft, Armie ends the night sober enough to take himself home.

A little past midnight is when he realizes how tired he is, and how he isn’t going to be able to stomach too many more ‘congratulations’ ‘thanks’ exchanges. It’s been fun, but he’s starting to come down, a balloon losing helium.

Dakota gets the bright idea to bring their friends back to her place. Alicia is in the middle of a thumb war with Armie when he declines the invite. “I’m going the fuck home,” he tells her.

“_Who are you?_” Dakota sneers. “Armie Hammer leaving the party early?”

“We’ve been at this venue for six hours,” he counters, crushing Alicia’s tiny thumb under his own. She whips her hand back before demanding a rematch.

“And? It’s not even late.” Dakota gestures wildly, her signature cocktail splashing over the rim of her glass and onto the floor.

Armie points at her, “You’re drunk,” and then at Alicia, “and you lost. I’m out.”

He’s made his mind up and beelines straight for the stairs to leave, offering only waves for the people who want his attention on the way. Somehow, by the time he makes it out front of the House of Blues, Jack and Dakota are also there, waiting around for a car to pick them up. Thank fuck they don’t have to worry about their equipment, the label having paid for a few roadies to take care of it tonight

Armie opens the door for them when it arrives and Dakota assaults him with a drunken, clingy hug. “When did you become such an old fucking man?” she groans, reaching out to push his chest but Armie just sweeps her wrist into his palm. “Come over. We’re gonna have two kegs at the house and there’s a couch with your name on it.”

“Nah.” It’s been a long, successful night, but he’s truly ready to retire. Parties where you’re the subject of celebration are draining. Dakota thrives in the spotlight, but he’s ready to go back to his station as the guy in the background who sweats a lot and bangs on shit.

Dakota looks ready to bite him. “Dev’s going,” she says accusingly, before Jack stumbles into their space and throws an arm over Armie’s shoulders.

“Leave the man be, love. If Armie wants to have a one man celebration--” He makes a crude gesture with his fist at his belt, “that’s his right.”

“Ew,” Dakota grouses, slapping at Jack’s hand. “I hate dick jokes.”

“Really?” Armie asks seriously, “because your boyfriend is a dick joke.”

The driver makes an irritated sound from inside the car. He’s double parked. A pair of headlights are idling behind him.

“Whatever. Have fun jacking off, I guess.” She can be a pushy drunk.

“Don’t die,” Armie replies with a smile. Dakota and Jack move to envelop him in a group hug then, peppering sticky, alcohol-infused kisses on either side of his face. It’s horrible but he loves these assholes. “Jesus Christ.”

“Goodnight, Armie!” They shout in unison, weird in the way couples get once they’ve spent too much time together. At last, they climb into the car and he watches it peel away from the sidewalk.

Once they’re gone, Armie realizes he’s forgotten his fucking keys and heads back inside to retrieve them. It takes nearly a half an hour to navigate there. Every fifty steps he is stopped by a friend or fan. To those he knows, he directs them to Dakota’s. To the rest, he signs CDs or obligingly stands in the frame of a photo.

The silence of the green room where he’d left his keys is bliss. Armie stands in it for a minute with his eyes closed, exhaustion pouring over him. He can still hear the crowd’s applause for each song, the countless congratulations. He can still see the reluctant pride on his family’s faces, and the beaming pride on Timmy’s.

Tonight felt brighter with Timmy in the room. Armie doesn’t know what to do with that information, or where to file it. One of the biggest nights of his life and he felt the most alive, not on stage or chatting with the press or signing merch for fans, but making Timmy laugh. Talking about nothing.

He leaves the House of Blues.

It’s a windows down kind of summer night, the air light but still warm. Armie cranks his stereo and leaves the party behind, removing his sweater and taking off in just a black tee.

L.A. watches him navigate through the city streets, past palm trees and liquor stores, and onto the highway, back toward home.

Only he doesn’t go home. Swept up in the flow of The Replacements, Armie hasn’t even registered where he’s driven until he’s signaling onto Timmy’s street. It’s quiet, just lampposts and the moon. No sounds of voices or feet. Just Paul Westerberg singing the lyrics:_see you’re high and lonesome, try and try and try._

Anxiety doesn’t jump Armie, or nerves when the setting bleeds into him. He doesn’t flip a bitch or retreat. Eerily calm, he finds an open stretch of curb to park against and cuts the engine, stepping decisively out of his car.

They never got their cigarette, or another ten minutes of time. More than the hit of nicotine, that’s what Armie wanted, to keep talking with Timmy. It’s also the motivation that has taken him here, and it’s what carries him up the steps to Timmy’s door. Nothing more. His heart is near-sighted, and tonight, this is what it needs.

Armie knocks.

-

It’s after one o’ clock in the morning.

Reality starts to creep in. Timmy might not have come home yet or he might be sleeping or--Armie’s mind stops supplying scenarios where this comes to nothing because the door opens and there he is. In a white t-shirt, small green gym shorts, and bare feet, looking like he’s just seen a ghost. 

Timmy’s face composes itself after a long beat. “You again?”

“Me again.” Armie’s heart is a dog pissing itself with excitement despite its owner having been gone for all of twenty minutes. It surges inside of his chest, though he keeps it on a tight leash and offers out a hand. “Armie Hammer, good to meet you.”

Timmy’s gaze bounces from his face to his hand then back, a wry grin pulling at the corners of his lips. His hand slides palm over palm into Armie’s grip, thumbs locking. “Hi, I’m Timothée.”

Armie grins, their hands linked. He realizes that he would gladly spend the rest of his life here, standing together with Timmy at his door. “Interesting name. Timothée.” He doesn’t butcher the pronunciation.

“It’s French, _Armie_,” Timmy says.

They stare at one another, breathing softly. The raucous celebration of tonight is still sharp in Armie’s memory, making this moment’s silence loud.

“It’s nice to meet you, but,” Timmy looks up and out towards the night sky, as if the summer haze that blocks the stars is answering something for him. Armie just waits patiently until their eyes lock again, “why are you on my doorstep at 1:00 AM?”

Armie fishes around for something to say. “I was hoping I could bum a cigarette off you.”

Timmy blinks, not letting go of Armie’s hand but stepping half outside of their delicate charade. “I was just about to take a shower,” he says, now glancing backwards as though his own apartment has betrayed him.

Armie raises his eyebrows and Timmy bites into his smile.

“Okay,” Timmy exhales then stands up straight to say with determination, “but only if you let me shave your head first.” He isn’t waiting for an answer though, pulling Armie inside by their handshake. Apparently, the cigarette will wait. “It’s been bugging me all night.”

Armie laughs, running a palm over his overgrown hair. It isn’t that bad, not even long enough for a wave to form. “Oh, so you’re the only one who can change your hair?” Not that he really had any intention to. “Whatever. Do your worst.”

-

Timmy’s apartment appears the same as Armie remembers it, but to be fair he isn’t really looking. Timmy lets go of his hand to head for the bathroom and Armie follows numbly, his pulse a wild thing. It feels like if he were to breathe wrong, the moment would shatter.

He doesn’t know what he’s doing, blindly following an innate desire to spend time with Timmy in whatever capacity the night will allow.

Armie stands in the doorway of the bathroom while Timmy shuffles around on hands and knees, half of his body disappearing underneath the sink. His plain white shirt is so thin that Armie can see the vertebrae of his spine beneath it. Just like they had earlier, he feels his fingers twitch at his side. To tame them, he plunges both hands into the deep pockets of his jeans.

“Are you sure you have clippers?” Armie asks eventually. It’s getting difficult to just stand here watching Timmy. He stares studiously at the pink pads of Timmy’s bare feet, mostly to keep his eyes off the subtle wiggle of Timmy’s hips and ass as he rummages through the disaster of his floor cabinet.

“I do,” Timmy answers with a grunt. A second later, he huffs with triumph. “Found you, motherfucker.” His slim body slithers out and he shuts the cabinet door with a slap of his hand, standing up to brandish a medium-sized toiletry bag. Armie slow claps just to be an asshole.

He watches Timmy take out the contents of the bag. It’s an entire beard and hair set. Of all the random shit he’s come across in Timmy’s apartment—an amateur tattoo gun, religious candles, a Lord of the Rings chess set, this makes the least sense. “The fuck do you have all that for? You can’t grow anything but pussy hair on your face.” Armie’s inquiry is serious, but his eyes are warm.

Timmy runs him through with a sideways grin. “They’re not mine, asshole.” Their eyes meet and Armie can feel that Timmy’s waiting for him to ask who they belong to but he’s already answering him with his bright, green stare: It doesn’t matter. “Now sit down.”

“Bossy...”

The clippers come to life and Armie automatically makes like he’s going to take off his shirt—he hates getting hair scraps all over his clothes. Timmy and he share a look in silent question, seeking confirmation about more than the imminent haircut. Nobody shows their hand. Armie quickly pulls his shirt over his shoulders, removing it mechanically and ducking his head before he can search out any reaction from Timmy to his being shirtless now.

The echo of the bathroom is alive with tension, the overhead fan rattling loudly. It matches Armie’s scattered thoughts. He takes a diagonal seat on the closed lid of the toilet and Timmy’s hand settles lightly over one shoulder as the buzzing gets closer to Armie’s ear. “You ready?”

Armie nods. The first stripe drags a breath out of him. A tuft of blond tumbles onto his knee and then the floor next to the toes of his boots.

His head is half shorn by the time Timmy says anything. His, “Why’d you do it?” is more curious than accusational but it feels weighty regardless. Armie doesn’t think they’re talking about his hair.

As best he can from this angle, Armie glances up. Timmy isn’t looking at him, focused instead on his handiwork with the clippers. Another tuft falls, rolling down his spine. It seems only fair to throw the question back, adapted. “Why did you?”

The clippers stop, the sound cutting out suddenly as Timmy takes a step back. Their eyes meet, Timmy’s unreadable until they lighten with familiar sadness. He laughs through his nose, attention swiveling to clean the compacted hair in the blades so that he can turn the machine back on.

Everything becomes sensory then. Armie doesn’t know how many minutes go by, could be five, could be five-hundred. He can’t find anything safe to talk about with Timmy leaned over him so Armie just lets himself feel. The vibration of the buzzer over his skull, the sound and motion of Timmy breathing as he presses close to him, skinny legs slotted between Armie’s larger ones, thumbs moving his ears out of the way for the clippers.

That’s when it happens. Timmy takes a fraction of a step closer, leaning in so that the front of his t-shirt sweeps across Armie’s face. He smells like stupid eco-friendly laundry detergent. It’d taken Armie weeks to wash the smell out of his life. The olfactory memories attached to the scent make his stomach ache, his fingers twitch.

Intoxicated, he lifts his hands from where they’d been resting on his knees and slides them up the sides of Timmy’s bare thighs, over to his hips, then the concave shape of his waist.

Timmy freezes with the buzzer still vibrating at the back of Armie’s head. Neither of them are breathing. He doesn’t speak and Armie doesn’t back down, doesn’t let his own fear overcome his desire to touch. Now that he has, he’s sure that he doesn’t want to stop.

Gently, slowly, Armie pulls Timmy in so that he can press his face into the cotton of his t-shirt, turning his cheek so that it’s held against Timmy’s delicate yet firm stomach, where his beer can had been hours ago. Armie can feel him struggling for a steady breath, can feel the tightening of his abdominal muscles, his shallow belly button near his ear.

The buzzer clicks off and the clippers are carefully set down on the back of the toilet. Armie is about to pull away but then Timmy’s hands are smoothing around his neck, palms open against his freshly buzzed scalp. He’s checking his handiwork, feeling out for any rogue hairs that missed being cut.

“All done.”

“Okay,” Armie nods, pulling away from Timmy then.

“You should rinse off in the shower.”

“I thought you were going to,” Armie counters.

“I am.”

Oh.

“Okay,” he repeats, his voice intentioned and low. After untying his boots and removing them along with his socks, Armie stands up. Timmy steps back and starts to undress, pulling out of his t-shirt, setting his necklace gently on the sink. Armie doesn’t watch him take off his shorts, busy with his own belt and fly. The shower head turns on and then they’re naked, stepping into the spray before it’s comfortably warm.

Timmy lets Armie wash off first, looking down at the swirl of soap in the drain while Armie sweeps cut hair from his head and shoulders. They don’t speak, their breathing layered together in echoes underneath the hiss of the water. His movements are still practiced in Timmy’s shower, the head not ideal for his height but muscle memory keeps Armie from bumping into it.

Steam rolls into the small bathroom, Armie trading spots so that Timmy can wet his hair. After pouring shampoo into his own hands, Timmy sees that Armie’s are cupped as well. Their eyes meet and then he’s filling Armies palm with pearlescent pink liquid.

Hesitant, Armie creates a lather and reaches forward, Timmy watching him from below a clumped fan of thick lashes. After a second, he bows his head, letting out a heavy breath when Armie’s fingers card into his hair, pushing soaked tendrils away from his face.

Diligently, Armie massages the shampoo into Timmy’s hair, and somehow cleanses them both in the process. He reconciles the part of himself that still loves Timmy with the part that has reason to hate him while washing him, accepting that both can exist, that he doesn’t have to want nothing at all just because he can’t have everything.

After the shampoo has been rinsed through, Armie takes the bottle of conditioner himself and scrubs his hands with it to comb into Timmy’s hair. Timmy’s face is pale and bare with Armie holding his curls back, his cheeks wet, his mouth wet. He opens his eyes and stares, one hand settling cautiously above Armie’s navel, his touch no more permanent than the spray from the shower head.

Timmy is completely naked in front of him but Armie can’t look away from his face. He’s been all over the country and there isn’t another like it. Soft and sharp in equal measure. Like a heart attack._Devastating._ It feels like there’s something to be said in this moment, but Armie can’t find it. He can’t even look, focused on Timmy’s lips and the biting metallic taste of water he would find there.

The hand on his stomach smooths higher then, more real now. It coasts up Armie’s pec and over his shoulder so that Timmy can hang on to the muscle stretched above Armie’s collarbone.

Armie slips his hand out of Timmy’s hair, down his cheek.

“Armie,” Timmy breathes, eyebrows flinching. He steps back into the spray then, Armie stepping right after him, and then they’re kissing. It’s startling, how perfectly Armie’s hand fits around Timmy’s jaw, how effortlessly their lips hug together. It feels right in a way that speaks to forces he could never accept.

They melt into the first meeting before Timmy’s mouth slides open, tongue pushing out against Armie’s bottom lip, teeth chasing after. He swells against Armie at the same time that he’s dragging him in, the both of them momentarily drowned by the shower. Timmy’s hair rushes over his forehead but only for Armie to mop it back, needing better access to his face.

He doesn’t catch all the words that stumble out of Timmy’s mouth and into his own when they part for air but savors the few that make sense.

“--kissing you,” Timmy sighs, his slicked body pressed to Armie’s. Every bump in his ribs, the blades of his hips, even the soft puff of Timmy’s lower belly is slotted into his own. Armie doesn’t need to hear the rest of Timmy’s sentence.

Maintaining their kiss, he puts a long arm out to feel for the shower handle, turning off the water. Once it’s gone dry, he can hear every one of Timmy’s sounds as his hands encompass Timmy’s entire throat, thumbs propped beneath his jaw to keep him facing heavenward.

They stand there twined together, dripping for a few minutes. Armie lets one hand drop, fingers trailing over the base of Timmy’s neck so he can grip firmly around the nape.

Timmy whimpers, his head falling back. His eyes are closed and Armie takes advantage of the moment to appreciate the sight: Timmy’s cheeks are burned pink from the heat of the water, his face glossy, slippery and swollen from the rub of Armie’s mouth and the scruff of his stubble. The fluorescent lighting of the shower does nothing to dull his beauty.

Armie takes Timmy’s mouth again, because he wants to and he can.

They tumble out of the bathroom somehow. Armie can’t comprehend anything that isn’t Timmy -- his mouth, the feel of his warm cock against Armie’s thigh, the way he’s panting and whimpering in spells of air that match the shallow pump of his hips.

They end up on the couch. Armie sinks down into the cushions after tripping over Timmy’s Nikes and Timmy falls onto him, thighs clamping down on either side of his waist. They are a couple of damp, naked dominoes, toppling one after the other.

Armie opens his mouth to say something smart about Timmy’s cleaning prowess, but before he can think of a good barb, his mind working on dial-up, Timmy wraps skinny fingers around his dick.

“I want you inside me,” Timmy says, forehead against Armie’s. His eyes look closed in prayer. “Fuck me, Armie. It’s been --” They both hold their breath, the sting of just how long it’s been since they were together distinct in their memory. “--just, _please._”

Armie’s willingness to give Timmy anything he asks for is still basic to his cellular makeup, but he fights it, for now. Dragging Timmy’s hand away from his dick, he groans, muttering a soft _jesus fuck_ as he lolls the back of his skull against the couch. “No.”

Timmy doesn’t seem affected by the initial rejection. Doesn’t ask for an explanation. Doesn’t try again. Instead he rolls his hips down and strokes alongside Armie’s cock with his own. Timmy looms in and over him to trace the full upper bow of Armie’s lip with his tongue.

“I want you to take me apart.”

Fuck, so does Armie. Except, “I can’t.” And not because it’s going to fuck him up psychologically, which may very well be the case. Locking his hand around Timmy’s hip to slow the waves of his thrusting, Armie holds his eyes. “Christ, I want to,” he promises, thighs flexing under Timmy’s slight frame. “But I’m going to come.”

“That’s the point,” Timmy says, watching Armie’s face with black-eaten eyes. He looks feral, wet hair starting to dry in wild directions.

Armie shakes his head. He straightens up so that he can kiss Timmy. Slow, like they have all the time in the world. Armie remembers that feeling, the decadence of not being on a deadline with Timmy. As for tonight, he’s surprised that he hasn't already turned into a pumpkin. Every minute is pressing his cosmic luck.

“I’m not going to fuck you for 30 seconds. If we have sex, I want it to last.”

While Timmy gapes at him, Armie moves to lay him out on the couch, making space for himself between Timmy’s legs, situated on his side, one large thigh splayed over Timmy’s narrow one.

“But I still want to touch you.” His hand blankets Timmy’s dick, bloodhot against his palm. He strokes it to full hardness again, and all the while Timmy just looks at him, face slightly pained but more wondrous, his hips lifting towards Armie’s fist, his hands exploring the expanse of Armie’s chest and arms. “How is this going to make you come?” he asks raggedly, trying to pull Armie over him.

Armie doesn’t budge, enjoying his current vantage point very much. He idly rubs himself against Timmy’s flank, tells Timmy, “Don’t fucking worry about it.”

This wasn’t even on his mind a few hours ago, when he was back at the House of Blues with Dev and Dakota. And it certainly wasn’t on the table. To be here now is a fever dream, and he’s not quite ready to wake from it yet. When Timmy starts to say, “Jesus, I’ve missed you,” Armie shuts him up with a kiss, turning his shoulder in, managing to fit both of their cocks in a loose cage of his fingers. It’s enough to placate Timmy and to make Armie’s stomach burn. “I’m gonna come,” is the next thing Timmy says, the words chasing each other out of his mouth, and then he does.

The warmth pulsing out over Armie’s fingers is enough in itself to make him finish too, adding to the mess. It steals his breath, has him probably making a face like he’s just been shot. Thankfully, Timmy doesn’t see it, his own eyes still touring the back of his skull. Their bones disintegrate and they morph into a tangle of limbs along the couch, still damp but now with more than just shower water. Everything is sweat, come, and Timmy’s rosewater shampoo.

Armie lays out on his back, Timmy situating himself sideways out of necessity. His cock is slowly softening against Armie’s thigh. They both elect to ignore the jizz that would ideally need to be drycleaned out of the cushions now.

Looking around Timmy’s front room, at posters he’s seen dozens of times, with Timmy’s shampoo in his lungs, Armie feels the dam that’s been holding back his more complex emotions give way. He can’t bask in the silence of his orgasm any longer, and spits out the first thing that comes to mind.

“I got to look at your photobook tonight.”

Timmy’s hand is a bird against his sternum, ready to take flight at a moment’s notice. “Yeah?”

Armie hums a soft affirmative, mentally tracing a map of New York’s subway system on a wall near the door.

“What did you think of it?” Timmy sounds nervous, his fingers tapping out a stumbling rhythm. “Any good?”

Timmy’s unwillingness to accept his own talent is beguiling. Armie’s never known if he’s just fishing for a compliment or truly unsure. Then again, Timmy never has been just one thing or another.

Armie softens without giving in completely. “Obviously not. It’s a miracle any copies sold.”

Timmy turns his chin to rest it against Armie’s shoulder. His smile spreads leisurely from ear to ear. “Mean!” he cries, folding his face into a dramatic pout for just long enough. “I saved a copy for you. I was going to mail it over but...”

“I can take it when I go.”

“Sure.” Timmy looks away and back. Their breathing has evened out. “I was going to send your apartment key with it. Forgot to give it back.”

Armie had completely forgotten about that too, even gotten into a fight with Jack over where it’d gone. So much for grand romantic gestures. “It’s cool. If you were going to sneak in to smother me with a pillow, I’m sure you would’ve by now.”

“Maybe that’s what I want you to think,” Timmy says.

Armie laughs and the movement wakes him to a sobering thought. He just fooled around with his ex-boyfriend, on his couch, at god knows what time of night. The rose-colored glasses he’s wearing have started to cloud. This isn’t part of Armie’s life anymore, it hasn’t been for months. “I feel like I shouldn’t be naked in your apartment.”

Timmy opens his mouth to say something back but then Armie’s moving him aside to get up and return to the bathroom for his clothes. Once he’s dressed again, he brings Timmy what he’d been wearing, lobbing it into his lap. Timmy stares at the pile of white and green, chewing his lip before sliding the shorts back up his legs and fighting into his shirt. Armie shouldn’t but he watches with an open gaze. He’d forgotten Timmy’s underwear.

“Did you still want that cigarette?” Timmy asks quietly once he’s covered, his arms wrapped around his own waist. Armie can sense his disquiet. It feels like treading water, his body tired but unwilling to stop lest he drown.

He thinks about the proposition and nods. Timmy takes a minute to scour his apartment for a pack, ends up finding a box stuffed into a pair of discarded skinny jeans next to the hamper. They go out to the porch, taking a side by side on the top step of the porch that leads toward the sidewalk. It’s narrow, their knees touching until Armie decides to stretch out his leg instead, eliminating the contact without a word.

He’s about to ask Timmy for a stick when his eyes catch on the match that Timmy’s struck to light a Camel. Armie watches his face become a battlefield of shadows and sharp edges. Timmy’s eyes close as he pulls in a breath, the cigarette crackling into life, smoke twisting into the wild curls that are drying against his forehead. He doesn’t hand Armie a cigarette of his own, but rather passes him the one that’d just been held captive between his crooked lips.

“Thanks.”

“Last one,” Timmy explains, as though Armie has accused him of something. He drops the dead match into the Camel box, crushing it in his palm to make his point. It’s tossed aside to be picked up later. “You know what that means, you owe me a pack.”

The suggestion sits heavy between them, an uninvited third party of possibility. Armie isn’t ready to acknowledge it, so they move past it and trade off with the cigarette in silence until it’s nothing but filter.

He checks the time on his phone, ignoring any messages and the fact that he’s on 10% battery. “Holy shit, it’s late. I have lunch plans tomorrow. I should go.”

Timmy doesn’t bother to cover the look of distress that crashes over him and Armie doesn’t change his own expression to comfort him. But when Timmy asks, “Like, as in a date?” he shakes his head. Whatever facade of self-control that Timmy has so carefully maintained all night is instantly ground out of him like their cigarette in the ashtray next to his hip. Timmy’s eyes look like they're still on fire, the smell of smoke and matches trapped in his hair. “Was there something you wanted to talk about? Because, I--”

Armie rubs a hand over his buzzcut, withstanding the scorch of Timmy’s gaze. “No,” he says definitively. He’s not here to hash things out.

Timmy wets his lips, leaking a shaky breath. “Then is it okay if I kiss you?”

The request catches Armie offguard. There are reasons to say no, but none with enough brawn to sway him in this moment. His mouth is already stained from Timmy’s for tonight, and besides, he finds that he still wants to.

Sitting with his wrists resting over his knees, Armie searches Timmy’s face, his mood caught on a line that Armie can either reel in or snap. He inhales in through his nose and out the same way, calmly. There is something undeniable about Timmy. It tugs at a spot behind Armie’s navel whenever he’s around, no matter what he’s done. Armie offers a weak, helpless smile to him, and he nods.

Timmy moves into his lap then like water filling up a glass, hands on his chest so that Timmy can slide into place, fitting perfectly into the container of his arms. Armie tilts his chin up, fingers skirting under his jaw, and lets Timmy kiss him sweetly. His hands seal around the slight curve of Timmy’s back and after a minute of just this, he’s standing up.

Legs knotting around his waist, Armie carries Timmy back into the living room, shutting the door with a barefoot kick behind him, and moves to deposit him into bed after hitting the lights. Timmy lands amongst the blankets with a breathless huff, hands springing out to pull Armie down over him. “_God,_” he says in a tight voice that sounds abruptly close to tears, peeling Armie out of his shirt once he’s within reach.

It’s dark and Armie doesn’t check Timmy’s face for wetness. He instead buries his own in the porcelain of Timmy’s neck, tasting soap and salt where his heartbeat is jumping out against skin.

For an instant, Armie is battered by a still frame from a recent nightmare. Matty positioned over Timmy in much the same way, making him mewl and whine like Armie’s doing now. But it’s chased off quickly by Armie’s name caught like breath at the back of Timmy’s throat. Though it might not always be the case anymore, tonight Timmy wants _him_.

He says as much a few minutes later, his face warped with need, “Wanna feel you.” To clarify his point, a hand snakes between their bodies to cup Armie in his jeans.

“I’m not a goddamn teenager anymore, Timmy,” Armie pants, “I can’t just pop a boner every ten minutes.” But even as he’s tempering Timmy’s expectations, he’s half hard again.

“Please,” Timmy says through tight teeth, finding the shape of Armie’s cock down his left pant leg and stroking over it with his palm. “You have no idea…”

Armie lifts away from Timmy to look down at his hand smoothing over his crotch. Timmy’s own shorts are explicitly tented. “No idea about what?”

“How bad I want you,” Timmy sighs, heated, “how fucking much. I can’t come thinking about anything else. And I miss you. And I--”

Kissing Timmy to shut him up, an arm alongside his head, Armie tears open his jeans one-handed, shoving them down. Then he’s using that hand to skim up Timmy’s slim thigh and into the loose leg hole of his shorts, squeezing his cock. Leaving Timmy’s underwear in the bathroom was a happy accident.

Timmy sobs a breath, whipping out of his oversized tee. “Come on, Armie,” he snaps, delirious, “Fuck me, I need it. _Please._”

The whole of tonight has been something Armie was willing to suffer the consequences for later, but the idea of actually getting inside Timmy again feels too dangerous. The rest of this will be hard to move past, but having actual sex will assuredly put his counter back to zero.

“I don’t know,” Armie says after a beat. And then, stupidly, “Do you even have a condom?”

“No. I haven’t needed them.”

Armie takes a second to shake his jeans off, his movement too restricted. Timmy’s not making sense. “What? You haven’t been with anyone?” He prepares for the blow of Timmy explaining himself in a way that includes hooking up, but when he replies with an easy, “No,” Armie is surprised to find how quickly he believes him.

“Why not?” He slides over Timmy’s hip to see him more clearly, a knit between his brows.

Timmy makes up for the shift by tracing both hands over Armie’s chest. He’s still hard and flushed. His voice when he answers is ruffled. “I don’t know,” he punches out, strumming at the elastic of Armie’s underwear. When he gives Armie his eyes, there’s more emotion present than can be read in the dark. “I didn’t want anyone else and I’m just...tired of being a fuck up.”

“You not getting laid won’t help you in that department,” Armie tells him, humor covering his relief. He’d tortured himself about whether or not Timmy was seeing other people. Who it was specifically, if Timmy looked at them the way he’s looked at Armie tonight. Knowing that he hadn’t shaves off an enormous slab of grief. “I haven’t either.”

Timmy’s expression splinters, something between a grimace and smile pulling his face. “Really? Not even that girl you toured with, the one you let sit on your shoulders?”

Armie has to think back, unspool his mind from Timmy’s apartment and into darker places. They’d played a game of chicken with TMFU in a venue parking lot one afternoon. Dakota must have uploaded it to their instagram. “Alicia? No.” He doesn’t admit that he’d considered it. She is lovely, but she isn’t Timmy.

“Fuck,” Timmy sighs, deflating into the covers. His eyes start to shine and he blinks rapidfire. “Okay. I thought, I don’t know.”

Armie thumbs over Timmy’s lower lip, hand around his cheek. They don’t need to talk about it. He lowers his face to kiss him.

After a few minutes of just making out, Timmy pulls away to look at Armie so that he can check for the okay to slide off his shorts. Armie says nothing, making way for his knees. Then Timmy turns over, fully naked, and looks back over his shoulder at Armie, his stare heavy.

Armie removes his underwear and spoons up behind Timmy, skin on skin on skin. They form a crescent of bare bodies and poor decisions. Cheek against Timmy’s curls, Armie watches his hand smooth down Timmy’s side, starfishing out over one cheek. He lets his fingers graze the warmth that radiates from the crevice, knowing that there is no turning back after this.

“Goddamn,” Armie groans, his cock thrumming fully to life as he slips his fingertips between Timmy’s cheeks and brushes over his hole. It’s hot and tight and who the fuck is Armie kidding, he doesn’t have the wherewithal to say no.

He bites down on Timmy’s shoulder, rolling skin between teeth. Armie is embarrassed by his own harsh breathing and the needy grind of his dick against Timmy’s lower back, but as he nips kisses all over his neck and shoulders, Timmy is loud enough to cover any sound between them.

Impatient as ever, he ends up yanking Armie’s wrist, pulling his hand up to his mouth. With his eyes closed, Timmy sucks two of Armie’s fingers in, carnal and messy. Fuck.

“Jesus, Tim,” Armie whispers, his cock starting to ache, heavy and eager as well. “You’re unreal.” It’s always been true: no human on earth should look the way Timmy does with fingers in his mouth.

“Wish it was your cock,” Timmy drools, words garbled around his knuckles. He swirls his tongue around them and Armie has to bite his cheek to maintain control. It’s been four months and change since he’s had sex; Armie wants to fuck every oriface available on Timmy’s long, lithe body. “Promise me, promise I’ll get to suck your dick again.”

Just like out on the porch, Timmy is speaking to a hypothetical future in which they’ll still see each other. Armie can’t bring himself to consider it right now, not with so much of his blood away from his brain. Instead of answering, he withdraws his spit slicked fingers from Timmy’s mouth and grips his chin, roughly bringing his face to the side so Armie can meet his eyes. Dark eyelashes rustle. “Tearing you apart sounds too good right now.”

Timmy whines and slides his own hand between his legs, strokes himself a couple times before deciding against it. He lifts a knee up and Armie does the same, spitting over his fingers once more before massaging his middle finger against, then into, Timmy’s hole.

Armie’s forearm is cramped by the time he can slide a second, then third, finger into Timmy. It takes longer than he remembers and a lot more effort to get Timmy worked open; the tightness and lack of lube is a promise that they’ll both be sore with more than the memory of tonight.

The sound of Armie spitting into his hand is crude mingled with the ragged breaths ripping from his own chest. Timmy’s thigh is shaking, so when Armie --“Fucking, _finally_,”-- breaches the first ring of muscle with his cock, he wraps his elbow under Timmy’s leg to hold it for him.

It’s impossible to start gently after going without for so long. Armie’s thrusts only vary between aggressive pumps that make Timmy whine with each fill of his cock or uneven, manic movements that threaten to spill them both over the side of the bed. Timmy meets every single slam with his ass, grinding and bucking his hips back over and over again until Armie is sure that he’s going to split open.

Armie buries his face against the back of Timmy’s neck, consuming every particle of him with each violent intake of air. Timmy’s arm is stretched back, nails scraping along the back of Armie’s skull when it’s not pumping a fist furiously over his cock. Being inside Timmy again is both strange and familiar, a different shade than his fading memories but still the same shape. Still overwhelming in every sense of the word.

“Don’t stop. God, don’t fucking stop,” Timmy mewls, as if Armie could stop himself if he tried. Timmy’s body is eating him up. When this is over, there’ll be nothing left.

They try and fail to connect their mouths, Timmy’s neck bent at a painful angle and Armie unable to multitask when he’s so focused on watching Timmy take him. Again. And again, the heel of his hand denting Timmy’s asscheek.

“Fuck this,” Timmy says suddenly, crying out when he strips himself away from Armie. It feels like he’s lost a limb, suddenly crippled without Timmy against him.

“What the shit, Timmy.”

“I want to see your face when you come in me.”

It’s not what Armie was expecting but it’s better than most alternatives. Then Timmy is pushing Armie onto his back straddling him before Armie can even sit up to lean against the headboard for support.

Timmy drops down and bottoms out on him with a punch of air and Armie nearly comes on the spot. “One second,” he urges. Timmy crashes down to bite his mouth and do what he always does: whatever the fuck he wants. Finding leverage with a fist in the sheets, Timmy rolls his hips and Armie digs fingers into his sides. “Fuck, _stop._”

“No.” Timmy grinds down and starts fucking him in earnest. He throws his head back, exposing his throat, and jerks himself off, each pump swiping his knuckles against Armie’s belly.

“You’re gonna make me come,” Armie warns, his sight hazy with awe as he watches Timmy bounce in his lap. His hair is as wild as his eyes as his smile as his rhythm, and Armie is at his mercy, unable to do anything else except take it all -- it’s not an unfamiliar feeling in the least. “Timmy--fuck. You’re so,” Armie has to swallow a gulp of oxygen. He’s not sure he’s been getting any. “You’re, you’re. _Christ._”

“Oh shit,” Timmy keens, his fist a blur between them. His pace stutters and then he’s spasming around Armie’s cock, spilling over his stomach while his trembling hips attempt to keep moving. He cries out a litany of curses with Armie’s name laced through them and then Armie’s coming too. Timmy keeps his promise and his head snaps forward so that he can stare dumbly down his nose, at Armie below being milked of his orgasm.

In the daze afterwards, Armie collects Timmy against him, face buried into his chest where he leaves wet, opened mouthed praise against Timmy’s skin. He doesn’t even catch the _”oh, baby,”_ that falls out of him until it’s too late.

Timmy’s breath falters from above him and slowly, he lifts off of Armie. They both shiver at the loss of heat, each other. Armie slumps down, melting against the pillow and the mess of blankets. He can feel the material clinging to the sweat on his back, tangled around his ankles, grabs a tail of one to clean his dick. Timmy flops down beside him in a similar position, wiping his hand off somewhere out of Armie’s line of sight.

While they catch their breaths in the moonlit room, Armie skips back to their conversation on the porch. “That thing tomorrow? It’s lunch with my brother. And maybe my parents if they’re available.”

Timmy’s laugh is shallow, his chest still trying to settle. Armie feels his gaze but keeps his eyes on the texture of the ceiling instead. “Uh, were you thinking about your parents while we were fucking?”

Armie scoffs, knowing that he won’t be able to think of anything other than the sex they just had for the rest of the goddamn year. “Don’t be a freak.”

“My bad,” Timmy chuckles, his voice unsure. “Are you on better terms with them now?”

“Trying to be,” Armie sighs, remembering their faces from tonight and the contentment they seem to have found in his choices. He can still feel Timmy’s eyes on him. “I don’t know why I’m telling you.” But in truth, he does. Looking over, Timmy’s cheeks are stained pink, his mouth held together. God, Armie wants to keep kissing him. “It was stupid to keep my family bullshit from you before.”

“You were trying to protect me,” Timmy guesses, which is true, but it wasn’t the right choice.

Rubbing his lips together, the cut from last week nothing more than a sliver of new skin now, Armie goes into a story that he should have told Timmy from the start. He waves a hand uselessly. “I never came out to my parents because it’s no one’s fucking business, and because I knew knew they wouldn’t have taken the news well.”

Armie’s never come out to anyone. It didn’t feel necessary and Timmy knows this. There was a time, near the beginning, when Timmy had asked him specifically if he was bisexual or pansexual or whatever the fuck and Armie had told him the same thing he’d said to Dakota when she asked back in high school: ‘I don’t know. I wasn’t born with a fucking Made in China sticker slapped to my ass, or any other label. Some people are hot, and I want to fuck them.’

Anyway, that’s not the point of this. “Before you and before Seattle,” he continues, “I was fooling around with this guy that worked for my parents. They found out after a company holiday party, it became a big deal.”

“Oh.” Armie feels Timmy’s trepidation. “The guy--”

He smiles, cutting Timmy off before he can spiral. “Not relevant. Doesn’t even live here anymore.”

“Yeah, yeah. Okay. Sorry,” is his sheepish reply. He zips his lips, throwing away an invisible key.

“Anyway, that’s how I got to Seattle. My brother’s accident was the perfect excuse to get me out of here. They were going to axe the guy I was hooking up with if I didn’t go and things just went from bad to worse. By the time I moved back, I didn’t want anything to do with them.”

“God, that’s horrible,” Timmy says, sitting up on his elbow. His tone is soft, genuine. “I’m sorry.”

Armie is sure that Timmy can’t relate. He’s met the Chalamets, he knows Timmy’s coming out story. Armie doesn’t hold it against him, just needs him to understand. “I never wanted to introduce you to them because they’ve never accepted anything I care about. I wasn’t interested in hearing what they had to say about you.”

Timmy looks ready to cry, his face pinched together and his eyes rimmed with red. Armie doesn’t think he could stomach it. He shakes his head and Timmy stables himself with a shaky breath. “Okay.”

“Okay,” Armie replies, relieved. There’s nothing more to say about it.

The silence between them breeds a creeping awkwardness. Timmy sits up and shuffles to the kitchen to pour a glass of water. He brings it over to Armie and sets himself back down on the mattress with a grimace.

“Sore?” Armie asks, more concerned than proud, though he’s very much both. His own thighs and stomach are tight and burning already. Maybe he’ll let Dakota run him a bath tomorrow like she’s always wanting to.

“I mean, yeah. I haven’t fucked anybody in, what, four months?” Armie chuckles into the water he’s still sipping on. Timmy is thoughtful, his fingers flexing as he considers something. Then adds, “Woah. That’s the longest I’ve gone since I started having sex _eight_ years ago.”

“Gross,” Armie says, rolling his tongue out like he might gag, half-joking, half-jealous. Timmy eats it up.

The silence they’re steeped in breathes, introspective and momentarily content despite a looming uncertainty that hangs over everything.

“Does anyone know you’re here?” Timmy asks quietly.

Armie shakes his head. “No.” He hadn’t even known himself that he’d be here until he was, but it does feel important that there were no outside influences on Armie’s coming over.

He plays back everything that’s happened tonight, but especially since he knocked on Timmy’s door. A slow analysis of feeling. After having survived for so long on heartbroken memories, it’s almost more than he knows what to do with, having something so real to think about. What stands out right away is that seeing Timmy, in any capacity, has been the best part of today.

No matter what happens after tonight, he can bet they’ll have a proper last kiss.

While Armie is deep in thought, Timmy ends up sliding under the mass of blankets on his bed, sinking up past his shoulders in different patterns. Armie follows when Timmy’s hand traces the mermaid on his arm, locking around his elbow to urge him down. “I’m really sleepy.”

“Me too,” Armie replies, because it’s true and he doesn’t know what else to say. It has to be after three o’ clock. Maybe he should go. He doesn’t want to.

Timmy pats around for the remote, locates it buried under one of the pillows. He puts on Netflix and it’s all so instantly familiar, a routine that Armie had made himself forget.

“Should we watch LOST?”

Armie shakes his head, face serious. He should really leave, can’t risk missing lunch with his family tomorrow. “I don’t have a fucking clue where I left off.”

Timmy speaks with just his hair and eyes visible above the covers, his one hand still circled around the tattoo on Armie’s forearm. “That’s fine,” he mumbles, voice a roughened whisper. “We can just start over.”

The End


End file.
